How It Started
- Ava Hoffman
- 3 days ago
- 8 min read
I’m going to be frank – I had no friggin’ clue what I was walking into when I met my husband’s parents for the first time. I’d grown up regularly having conversation with adults. I didn’t know of anyone who really hated me or couldn’t stand me. I knew myself to be considerate and conversational and kind.
It never dawned on me that the parents of the man I was going to marry would detest my very being.
And to be fair, I don’t think it started out that way!
This is a new type of article for me…one where the story – my story – is the focus, and one where there isn’t necessarily a grand theological principle for me to share with you at the end.
These words are how it started for my in-laws and I. It’s our origin story, if you will.
Like I told you the first time we started talking about this part of my story, I do not share to slander or gossip, and while this is most certainly a biased and one-sided take, it is also the most complete version of the truth.
I have combed through my memories, my journals, my husband’s memories. I have listened to old voicemails, reread old letters and cards and emails, and parsed through records of old conversations with my husband’s family. I’ve sat with the stories extended family members have shared with us. This is my story, yes, and with my journalistic background and bend towards research, it’s also part exposé backed with facts that have been highly vetted.
And where I once did all of these same things, searching for an answer, the secret to why they do not want me, love me, or embrace me, that is not my approach any longer. Today, I can go through these memories and artifacts accepting that this is the reality they have chosen, confidently knowing I am not the problem – I never was.
May this story – part one of many – bless you as you struggle in the same ways. You are not always the problem, beloved child of God, and you need not wear the responsibility for the conflict you did not create.
My first mistake was having to pee.
See, I was living in Lansing, MI at the time, and TR was in Kansas City. His parents lived halfway between us, and about a month after we started dating, they wanted to meet me, so we decided to head to their home for the weekend.
I got there 20 minutes before TR, and he told me to wait in the car until he arrived. He was pretty adamant that I not go in by myself. I had to pee, though, and I didn’t think I could make it 20 minutes! I remember thinking, “why would I wait?! I mean, really, what could go wrong?!”
Famous last words, I know.
My mother-in-law once told me, “It was like a Hallmark movie! The doorbell rang, and I opened the door, and there you were – this beautiful girl, suitcase in hand, hair softly waving in the wind. The snow was falling around you, and the porch light was like a spotlight. It was like something out of a movie!”
What we didn’t realize then was the confidence and independence I displayed by coming to the door alone was the worst first impression I could have made.
My storytelling nature, conversational spirit, and ability to express well-thought-out opinions on everything from Biblical apologetics to medical healthcare didn’t do me any favors. Disagreeing with one of the five men in the house was my undoing.
When TR excitedly asked his father what he thought at the end of the weekend, he was told, “Well, she’s sassy.”
As a Southern girl, “sassy” has always been a compliment! It is the part of my personality that easily breaks the ice, readily puts others at ease, and often allows me to diffuse tense situations with grace.
Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as “bold; vigorous, lively; smart and stylish.” The words “cheeky” and “full of spirit” are often used, too.
One of the most mind-boggling things about being married to a former cult member is how accurate their interpretations, predictions of responses, and translations of the secret language are when it comes to those still living in that place. It took me a couple years of being married to TR to understand that he would always be right about what they meant, how they would respond, and the definitions of the words they use.
While I was pleased that I was named “sassy,” TR was heartbroken. Because translated, this meant: Caution. She’s going to cause problems.
See, like any definition, the meaning of “sassy” was influenced by the context surrounding it. Our context was TR’s biologicals* asking this question: is Ava going to be a good wife for TR and a good fit in our Hoffman family?
The larger context that formed the lens through which my now-in-laws answered this questioned was that of their religion. A culture that prefers women to be seen and not heard, to be doormats for others, finding their identity in wifehood and/or motherhood. It’s a culture where the husband gets to assume the needs and wants of the wife, and choose whether or not to meet both, one, or neither of them – and she must submit to his decision, his authority, no matter what.
The arrogance of the men in the Hoffman family is a point of pride for them – they call it “confidence.” But when met with a woman who actually embodied healthy confidence, I was called “sassy.”
Meaning they thought I was impertinent, rude, disrespectful, impolite, aggressive, outspoken, provocative, upsetting to others, rocking the boat, arrogant, and conceited.
We’ve learned over the years that the amplified version of that warning my father-in-law gave TR is rooted in my father-in-law’s fear of my fearlessness. My boldness is threatening, and my confidence and knowledge, in his opinion, are not to be held by a woman.
Which is why they were less than pleased when TR informed them that we were engaged a month after this hometown visit.
It stings when your support system isn’t excited at your news of impending nuptials…it’s a moment that so many of us dream of, both men and women. To be met with guarded reservations and overt hesitations is not the reaction anyone hopes for.
For my husband, this was one of the first major life decisions he made on his own, without parental input. For couples that marry young, I have found this is often the case. And regardless of the age, it’s an opportunity for parents of an adult child to demonstrate their trust and confidence in said child.
In the context my husband was raised in, making this decision without parental input was the ultimate rebellion.
See, they didn’t know me.
For my in-laws, the ideal wife for my husband was from their closed community. She was quiet and timid – she knew her place. She would be submissive, seen and not heard. The less personality she had, the better, and the longer they had known her and her family, the better fit she would be. And yes, we believe they had the perfect wife for TR already picked out (I’m dead serious). They’d grown up together, went to the same church, and her family was close with my in-laws.
I was not her. And I am none of the things they desired for their son.
After getting engaged, my soon-to-be-in-laws requested once a week hour-long zoom sessions with me. They had questions, and since we lived over six hours apart, this was, in their mind, the only way to get to know me. It was one of those requests that felt like a command. You know the one.
But “submissive” in the evangelical Christian definition (ahem doormat) is the farthest thing from who I am, and I told them I would think about it and get back to them.
I was living at home (this was smack-dab in the middle of the 2020 COVID lockdowns), and I remember discussing this request with my mama. I told her how weird and uncomfortable that arrangement felt. It wasn’t like any kind of healthy relationship I’d ever heard of nor was it consistent with how I biblically defined and engaged in relationship.
I wanted relationship with them, and I wasn’t willing to compromise on who I am and what I believe to do it their way (remember this – it’s a recurring theme).
My mom agreed. “I’m not sure I love the idea of you being interrogated weekly by people who already have it out for you,” she said.
I told them no.
I grew up watching my own mama struggle with her mother-in-law. She wasn’t the favorite, and my grandma made sure she knew it. Even within my own sibling unit, my grandma played favorites, and I was not it. The first time I prayed for my future in-laws and my relationship with them, I was eleven or twelve.
My adolescence was colored with intimate experiences of hard in-law relationships, and from an early age, I knew and understood the pain they were capable of causing. I’d been praying against it in my own life every day since.
So while I refused to be interrogated by them, I deeply desired relationship – good and healthy relationship – with these people who were going to become part of my family. I extended a counteroffer – “let’s call and text regularly,” I said. “I’d love to build relationship organically.”
I didn’t know that they didn’t even do that with TR, their firstborn and eldest son.
Our engagement then became a crash course in “the dark side of Christianity.”
See, when the Lord formed me in my mother’s womb, He etched hope into the depths of my being. To this day, it’s a hope that defies human understanding, and it cannot be thwarted by circumstance. I see the good in people, and even when I don’t want to, I often can’t help but view people as the beloved image-bearers they are.
It was unfathomable to me that folks who had been born and raised in church, who led small groups, care groups, and were on the elder board, could have little to no understanding of what relationship is. I couldn’t comprehend “Christians” that wouldn’t take accountability for their actions, who excluded others based on perceived “holiness,” and who truly believe that withholding love makes them look like Jesus.
And I guess that is how it started. The true origin story. The one I accidently stumbled into, an unwitting victim.
The tale of how my in-laws grew up and how that shaped them into Christians too good at deceiving themselves. A history of favoritism that colored my father-in-law’s world and that he repeated with his own sons. Generations of narcissism (more on this one day) and perfectionism that culminated into my husband’s childhood being defined by emotional neglect, narcissistic abuse, spiritual neglect and abuse, and trauma so deep most of his childhood memories have been blacked out.
So when I stumbled into all this – things I knew nothing about and had never experienced – I assumed it was about me.
Because that’s what they said.
And then I had a dream that changed it all.
To be continued…
*TR has a hard time referring to the people who raised him as “parents,” simply because they kept him alive and that’s about it. They abdicated their God-given role to protect and nurture and love him, and for this reason, they are his biologicals and nothing more.