I'm lucky that my real-life Mom has both a great sense of humor

Host: The afternoon light poured through the kitchen window, soft and warm, settling like dusty gold on the tiles. The hum of the refrigerator mingled with the faint sizzle of a forgotten pan, and the smell of burnt toast clung to the air. Jack sat at the old wooden table, a half-empty coffee mug before him, the newspaper folded beside. Jeeny, across from him, absentmindedly twirled a pen between her fingers, the corners of her mouth caught somewhere between a smile and a sigh.

On the fridge, a magnet held a faded comic strip, a panel from Cathy. The caption read:
"I'm lucky that my real-life Mom has both a great sense of humor about herself and an amazing ability to slip into complete denial if the subject matter gets a little too close to home." — Cathy Guisewite

Host: The room felt like the kind of place where conversations turned unexpectedly — from laughter to memory, from lightness to the unspoken ache that lingers between people who’ve known loss.

Jack: (with a crooked grin) “You know, I always thought that line was a joke. But now, it just sounds like survival strategy.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Maybe it’s both. Humor and denial — the twin shields of the human soul.”

Host: The sunlight caught the steam rising from Jeeny’s tea, curling like a ghost that didn’t want to leave. Jack watched it, his eyes narrowing in that way he had when something small — a word, a tone — struck too deep.

Jack: “I don’t get it. Why would you want to live in denial? Isn’t that just lying to yourself?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s not about lying. It’s about breathing. You can’t face the whole truth all at once, Jack. Not every day. Some days, denial is what lets you keep standing.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. We’ve built a world where pretending is a form of coping. Everyone’s smiling, posting their happiness online, saying they’re fine. It’s just denial dressed up in filters.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “And what’s wrong with that? Isn’t pretending sometimes the only way to make it through? You ever seen a mother hold it together for her child after losing her job? Or a father cracking jokes in a hospital waiting room? That’s not fake. That’s courage disguised as denial.”

Host: Her voice softened on the last word. Outside, a car horn blared faintly, the world continuing in its indifferent rhythm. Jack rubbed his temple, staring into his coffee as if it held some answer he’d misplaced years ago.

Jack: “You always make suffering sound poetic. But it’s not. It’s ugly. It’s raw. And denial — it just delays the healing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It prepares you for it. You think people heal by facing the whole truth at once? Nobody does. We take it in doses — like medicine too strong to swallow all at once.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it’s okay to look away from the truth?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Just long enough to find your breath again. Haven’t you ever looked away from something too painful?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered toward the window, where the faint reflection of his own face looked older than it should have. There was a brief, heavy silence.

Jack: “When my mom died, my dad refused to talk about her for two years. Wouldn’t even say her name. You call that denial ‘healthy’?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Did it break him?”

Jack: (pausing) “Not then. But later. When it hit — it hit hard.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he survived those two years, didn’t he? Maybe that silence was his way of keeping her close — by not letting her go just yet.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cup, then set it down again untouched. The kitchen clock ticked with exaggerated slowness, as if marking the space between their words.

Jeeny: “Cathy’s mother, in that quote — she’s not just being funny. She’s human. Denial isn’t always blindness, Jack. Sometimes it’s grace — the kind that gives you enough time to gather the strength to face what hurts.”

Jack: “Grace, huh? That’s one way to spin it. I see it more like emotional cowardice.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Cowardice? You really think courage is always staring pain in the face? No, Jack — sometimes courage is smiling when you want to scream. Laughing so your children don’t cry. Pretending so the world doesn’t fall apart.”

Host: The words hung like a quiet chord, dissonant yet true. Jack looked at her — really looked — and saw something in her eyes he hadn’t before: not naïveté, but endurance.

Jack: “So what, you just laugh your way through trauma? Make jokes until the wound stops bleeding?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Sometimes, yes. Because laughter is how we remind the wound it doesn’t own us.”

Host: The light shifted — the kind of sunlight that feels like memory. Jack leaned back, exhaled, and let a small, reluctant smile form.

Jack: “You sound like my mom. She’d burn dinner and laugh about it, even while crying over the bills. I used to think she was out of touch. Maybe she was just keeping us sane.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Humor is the mother tongue of survival. It doesn’t erase pain — it translates it.”

Host: Jeeny rose from her chair, walked to the sink, and rinsed her cup. The water ran clear, reflecting the pale light from the window.

Jack watched her — something softening in him, some quiet memory awakening.

Jack: “You ever think humor and denial are just two sides of the same mask?”

Jeeny: (turning, smiling) “Of course they are. But sometimes the mask is what keeps the face from shattering.”

Host: The room fell into an easy silence — not empty, but full of something gentle and familiar. A silence that spoke of shared understanding, of forgiveness for the ways people survive.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to hide letters she didn’t want to read. Bills, bad news — anything. She’d shove them into a drawer and say, ‘If I don’t open it, it doesn’t exist.’” (She laughs softly.) “I thought it was silly. Now I do the same thing with emails.”

Jack: (chuckling) “So you inherited her denial.”

Jeeny: “And her sense of humor about it. That’s the trick — to know when you’re fooling yourself, and to laugh anyway.”

Jack: “So, self-awareness wrapped in self-deception?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the closest thing we get to balance.”

Host: Jack laughed then — really laughed, the kind that loosens the air and makes the walls feel wider. The sound startled even him, like a long-forgotten melody.

Jeeny smiled, watching him as though she’d been waiting for that sound.

Jack: “I guess we all need a little denial sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Just enough to keep the truth from crushing us before we’re ready to carry it.”

Host: Outside, the light softened into evening. The kitchen seemed to breathe with them — the clock, the refrigerator, the faint tick of life continuing.

Jeeny picked up the folded newspaper, brushed a few crumbs from the table, and said quietly:

Jeeny: “The real trick isn’t denying forever. It’s knowing when to stop pretending and finally laugh — not to escape, but to accept.”

Jack: “You sound like Cathy’s mom.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe we all do, in the end.”

Host: Jack looked toward the window, where the last rays of sunlight painted everything in a soft, forgiving gold. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the warmth steadying his hands.

The comic strip on the fridge fluttered slightly from the breeze of an open window. Its humor suddenly felt sacred — not because it mocked pain, but because it honored the human need to soften it.

Host: And as the day faded into quiet evening, they sat there — two souls laughing softly at life’s unbearable truths, finding, in humor and denial alike, the small mercy of being human.