The woman at the table who looked tired- III

The last night ended with a bit of commotion.

We had gone to bed after our own evening festivity when there was a big disturbance. We all jumped out of bed as we heard things being thrown around, and a young child screaming.

This ripped a little more into me than I had expected.

Because I was once that woman people likely listened into whilst a man slapped her around a little.

The part that really hit me was that we had seen the woman earlier that evening, walking from her room with her husband. She looked tired.

The first thing a women around our table said was: ooh, someone looks pissed off.

Little did we know, she was likely dealing with a full blown narcissist. I recall her husband walking past the table to join the rest of the crowd. They had likely been arguing. Only after reflecting back did I realise, I recognised his expression.

He will make the world believe she is the problem, keeping himself composed. Because let's face it, men publicly contain emotion well. In private, all that containment boils over into abuse. At least for the abusers. Not all men are categorised here.

Laying in bed, monitoring the scuffle, my heart broke.

I felt sorry for judging her in my heart. I had wished I could just smile to her at the table. Let her know I saw her.

There are unspoken conversations in the room all the time. They speak louder than logic. I had that gift, the ability to read what is not being said. I had learned it the hard way, which is the only way some things get learned. You simply do not carry a story and walk through a room without reading it.

But knowing and being able to act on what you know, those are two very different things.

Most nights at the villa ended the same way: a round of Uno on the patio.

We played almost every evening of the holiday. The air was still warm at twenty-seven degrees. Wins and losses passed between us without ceremony, no scorekeeping, no grudges. Just the clean shuffle of cards, the occasional strike of strategy, and the easy rhythm of play.

Most nights I laughed about the hot seat I was always in — constantly getting all the big plus fours, or having to shuffle. But not the last night. That night, I took the championship status.

I know you are wondering: a game of Uno, is she for real?

Yes. I am.

Somewhere between those shuffles, I realised something.

Life, much like Uno, isn't about the small wins or losses between us. What matters most is how we carry ourselves — even when the details, like the order of cards, aren't shifted in our favour.

I sometimes wonder: if we were to stand in eternity, surrounded by life forces more intelligent than us — beings who transcend space and time — wouldn't they choose the company of those who can hold to the truth of things, no matter the game?

The emotion that was stirring in me was loud.

I sat staring over the beautiful green olive vineyards, the remnants of an old abandoned mine — which was the birthplace of the villa. Now a holiday destination, it used to be a family home of a mining tyrant and his family. They had ripped the earth bare to strip her of her marble. It was overgrown now. The scars of old bomb blasts from the mine had created an elevation in the valley.

I scanned it all from my bathroom window.

A strange place to reflect, you might think. But in this case, with double doors that flung open fully, it overlooked the pool, the villa entrance, the growing heights of trees.

It was one of the more honest views I had that whole trip.

You do not just get to cut someone open from the inside and not leave scars.

When we break people — or ourselves — with unspoken actions, that is what happens. We brew an inner world that needs to be taken captive daily. Physical scars heal, maybe leave a deep ache here and there if structural. But inner wounds, they set in. They become one with your psyche. They shape your dreams and conversations.

That is why we need to be careful with one another.

That is why we must know our sunshine and our thunder.

I had wished I could just smile to her at the table.

That is all. Not a rescue. Not a confrontation. Not a speech.

Just: I see you.

Some nights that is the most powerful thing one woman can offer another. Not solutions. Not sympathy. Just the quiet acknowledgement that she is not invisible, that someone across the table noticed — and that what she is carrying is real, even if the room has decided not to name it.

I did not get that chance. The holiday ended. We packed the van.

But I kept thinking about her on the drive home.

— V