The half-filled chowder bowl

Last night, we all worked together making seafood chowder. Tom cut potatoes, I cut onions and garlic, Rosy and Rita ripped apart whole cooked lobster, removing the tasty morsels. We sauteed the onions and garlic in real butter and added half and half. While it was cooking, Rosy was trying to find a book she had ordered. It hadn't come--out of stock. And she couldn't find it anywhere, except for $379 for what had been a $20 book. She got more and more morose and went down, in a funk, to the shed where she lives. When the chowder was ready, Tom called down several times on the intercom to invite her up, but she didn't come. We started eating without her. A while later she came up in tears wanting to know where the breaker was for the shed. Tom got up from his half finished meal and went to help her. When he returned some time later, he threw his bread in the woodstove and went upstairs. His half eaten soup sat across from me. Neither Tom not Rosy every returned to supper. I washed the dishes and Rita cleaned up the stove and counters. I felt terrible. This morning I realized that part of why I was upset is that I felt somehow to blame, because Tom had been sitting with me, talking to me. And he never returned to me; I felt unloved and abandoned. As if I had somehow offended him.

It probably was not me. But I do have issues with other people's anger. It's very hard for me to cope with.