We’d been married a week when my in-laws came to see our first apartment. My husband, my mother-in-law, an aunt and uncle stood in the bedroom.
“Can I look in the closets?” my mother-in-law asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.
She stepped closer to a closet door. “But you were so excited about having two walk-in closets.”
“I do love my walk-in closets,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I want people looking in them.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She moved away from the closet and I sighed with relief.
My husband’s aunt said something thing and I turned away. A while later I walked into my kitchen and my mother-in-law was there opening the cabinets.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I wanted to see how you had your wedding presents put away,” she said and opened another cabinet.
“Um,” I said. “Really, I don’t really want people to look in my cabinets.” I thought of my mother who had died seven years earlier. She wasn’t the sort to open other people’s cabinets. “I mean…”
“Oh, Marta. They’re just cabinets.”
In writing I intend to reveal certain things and keep quiet about others. Perhaps you glimpse things I don’t realize are showing. How private can a writer be in this modern age? And would it be better if the web could forget the things we reveal?