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They meant well. I knew that. But neither of them really stopped to ask what I wanted or thought about it. I felt like that eighteen-year-old again whom they tried to talk out of escaping to the city.
Since January, the two had been in fix-it mode. As an only child, I’d always been their focus but also their project. When something went wrong, they both swooped in to try to make it better. And when their only daughter decided college wasn’t for her, they’d tried their best to fix that, too. I hadn’t listened, though. And now the words they hadn’t said yet but were painted all over their faces, intermingling in these horrid conversations, popped in the air between us.
We told you so.
We told you New York was a mistake.
We told you your business idea was risky.
We told you to just play it safe.
We told you not to trust him.
We told you to go to college.
We told you your dream wouldn’t work.
We told you so.
Still, you can’t build a life on, “We told you so.” I stabbed the porkchop with my fork, thinking about how I wanted nothing more than to sort it all out, to figure out my place in the world. Mom had offered me the job at the hotel back in January, when I’d first returned home. Dad had taken it as a sign that law school was still where I should be, even making calls to schools to get information. It would have been easier to take either of them up on their offers, in reality. To just pick a stable path and go for it. Still, it wasn’t what I wanted. It just wasn’t.
I needed to make it out of the mess I’d made on my own. I needed to prove to them and mostly myself I was still capable of doing something worthwhile. I had to find my own way to success again. I loved my mom, but working by her side where she could nose in every inch of my business didn’t seem like something that would be good for my already deteriorating psyche. And law school had never been in the cards for me.
So, I’d gotten the job at Tino’s, mostly because they had a Help Wanted sign displayed and hired me on the spot after realizing who my dad was. I hadn’t planned on staying long, but that’s the thing about routine. Time flies when you’re not paying attention. So now it was the beginning of June, and I was still working at Tino’s. I still had no idea what was next for me and was still a disappointment to everyone in my family.
That was something I’d have to live with for now, though. Quite literally. Because as the conversation stopped and I realized my dad was looking at me awaiting an answer, I could see it in his eyes.
You were going places. I used to be proud of you. When are you going to make me proud of you again?
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing away from the table to retreat to my room, taking my plate to the kitchen to clear it first as tears threatened to fall.
“Now look what you did, you upset her. She’s sensitive right now, Allen. You push too hard. You always have,” I heard my mom say.
“And you meddle too much.”
Cue the fight over which parent was messing me up more. Although, after escaping to my room, I sat on the edge of my bed swiping at tears and thought about how it was too late. I’d already messed myself up way too much. And, serving as a harbinger to remind me things could always get worse, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out to see her number flashing. I threw the cell phone on the bed, flung myself backward on the hot pink comforter, and closed my eyes, wishing I could just go back in time like some bad dramatic movie and do it all over.
Except, if I could, what would I even do?
Reinventing your life isn’t ever easy, I considered, as I tried to get it together, chanting the mantra from my morning podcast but forgetting some of the words. A few minutes later, there was a knock. Mom stood in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, Tillie. We didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just, well, we’re glad you're back from the city and want to see you find happiness.”
I smiled at her. It was an uncharacteristically calm, reasonable statement.
“Thanks, Mom.” I inhaled. Maybe Mom was starting to understand.
“The city was so gross. I mean, I think your skin is still wearing some of the smog from there. I got you a new cleanser. It’s on your bathroom sink. A few scrubs with that and you’ll have a glow about you again,” she added.
And the moment faded. I shook my head, trying not to groan like a teenager. I held back what I wanted to say, though.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, again reminding myself that she meant well. Probably.
“Of course. Got to get you back in tip top shape, Tillie. It’s all up from here, you know.”
She waved from the doorframe, her huge smile accented by her hot pink lipstick she’d reapplied after dinner.
“Okay, I’ll let you decompress. But don’t forget to try the face wash,” she said, tapping out a rhythm.
