I made the decision to not return to my dad’s house for the summer during the spring term of my sophomore year. My older sister, Audrey, had offered me the opportunity to live with her and her husband for the summer. Their house was no more than two miles from my dad’s, the only place I had ever lived besides my college dorms.
I wanted to break the news to my parents in a designed way; a calculated conversation to not only explain, but also to talk-up the decision I had already made. Audrey, however, was not so deliberate. She let the news slip before I could say anything. For some reason, having my parents know the decision before I spoke to them freaked me out. My anxiety took over; and I was struck with fear about facing my decision.
Mom’s conversation came first. I knew she wouldn’t be ecstatic about the choice. She had proposed me living with her before, but I never viewed it as a real option. For one, she lived too far away. And two, I simply did not want to live with her. Since my parents divorce eight years earlier, and her subsequent move out, I had steadily grown more distant from my mother.
I called her from my dorm room and knew exactly what was coming: “Why are you moving out of your dad’s to live with Audrey? Why don’t you live with me? Can you even live there? I have a bed for you. A real bed.”
She actually said that. A real bed. My sister and I had a great laugh about it later; as if our mother was the only person around with an actual bed. And one that I could sleep in nonetheless. Her irrationality exceeded expectations.
I explained to her that Audrey’s house did in fact have a real-life bed for me to sleep on and how it wasn’t personal and the location was better. On and on, I said anything to get her off the phone, my go-to move when talking to her. She will keep me on the phone for hours nodding and yes-ing along as she talks to herself about anything she can think of. I can set down my phone and do anything relatively quiet with my hands (my personal favorite: surf the internet) and not miss much of our conversation. I know to come back as soon as I hear, “Daniel?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m still here.”
The full-time-mother role is not exactly her style, but she never misses an opportunity to criticize. And while I missed out on some of the more necessary maternal roles growing up, I will admit that my mom loves to brag about me. Probably the two main reasons she really wanted me to live with her, it would give her the chance to brag about taking me in (the wonderful accomplishment it is) and maybe show me off to some neighbors. So like I said, I never considered living with her and she probably knew it. That simple fact made the conversation easier to tackle for me.
Butterflies were much more rampant for Dad’s conversation. Some people might move out for freedom’s sake or to escape their parents, but it was never about that for me. Ever since about 13 years old when my friends had to be home for the streetlights, I’ve only had to follow a self-prescribed “respectable” curfew.
For me, what met me at the door had me running. I’d return home at 2 A.M., ever so slightly opening and closing the front door, tip-toeing creaky wooden floors as I dodged a collection of toys and clothes not touched in weeks. Then the attempted stealth trip up the never-quiet stairs. My dad sleeps at the top; no room of his own, just the space the stairs open up to. His small bed softened by a collection of futon pads and flanked by piles of books about many religions. Most nights he’d greet me in a half-sleep mumble: “Dan?”
Also in the house were my brother, his girlfriend, their daughter, my sister and her daughter. Each morning, I would wake to my oldest niece prodding me awake, a collection of crying nieces downstairs or an argument between my brother and sister about the unnecessary topic of the day. I rarely brought people over. The uncertainty of what might occur was enough of a deterrent, but I must admit shame was a factor.
The dreaded conversation was short. I saved it for my last day at school before returning home to the east side of Michigan for the summer. My stomach did flips as I dialed my one-and-only landline phone number.
“So you’re going to live with Audrey?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah, I think it will be fine.”
“Ok, do you need anything from me?”
“Not that I can think of. But I will probably come by tomorrow to pick some things up from the house when I get home.”
“Ok, well I’ll be at work till 6.”
Simple. To the point. And little emotion. My dad and I were definitely cut from the same cloth. He seemed slightly put-off by my choice, but his lack of any real emotion showed me he was at least on board with my decision to this point. Hiding emotion is not my dad’s style. I learned swear words at a young age sitting at the top of our basement steps. When something upset him, I could hear him throw a barrage of words I knew I was never supposed to say at his many stacks of books. I was relieved to not play the role of the books that day.
The following day, I returned to the east side to stack my clutter into a new room. Laying in my new real-bed, I couldn’t help but be excited: no two-year old would be waking me up before noon tomorrow.
Intended Publication: Lives
Words: 1,010
Outline:
Complication: Daniel makes choice.
Development: Daniel call Mom.
Memories cause uneasiness
Dad eases fears
Resolution: Daniel moves out.
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