The House Girl

“Margaret was always treated well. Very well, as I recall. She always sat at the table, just like the rest of us.” My jolly great-uncle relaxed around mother’s little kitchen table.

“Oh, yeah.” My grandmother smiled, remembering her early childhood friend. “She was a real nice lady. I just don’t see what the fuss is over. Black is black and white is white, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Slavery was wrong; I’m not sayin’ that it wasn’t. I just mean, there’s no use in mixing people when they don’t want to be mixed.”

I kneaded the bread as I listened in on my family’s childhood memories, somewhat intrigued by the idea of another world existing in the very same spot as mine. My heart swelled with compassion, not for Margaret, but for my family. They would very likely come to the end of their lives without ever truly knowing themselves or the world they lived in. I wondered what unknowingly dark things I missed in myself; what misconceptions I must overlook.

I searched for a way to shift the uncomfortable conversation, but my sister broke in first.

“Has anyone heard anything about the floods they’ve been having in Colorado?”

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