What about meeee? is the question I’m internally screaming. But what comes out is more combative than scared.
“Why did we have a whole conversation about chair covers before you bothered to tell me this?” I’m not exactly shouting, but I’ve lost whatever cool I had two minutes ago.
“I know it’ll take some time to wrap your head around it.But you have a while to figure out what you’re going to do once we find a renter.”
“With all due respect,” I say tightly and not very respectfully. “Wouldn’t it be easier to be digital nomads next year? After I leave for grad school?”
“We’re on our timetable, not yours,” Mom says, giving me a sharp look. “And you don’t even know that you’ll be going, Sam. You’re going on yearthreeof this application process.”
I stare at her. She’s communicated her frustrations indirectly, but she’s never openly expressed doubt like this. At least not to my face.
“Jen.” Perry looks pained. “This is a lot to take in.”
My mom takes a breath and collects herself. “Maybe selling a few of those comics could help get you on your feet—”
“Don’t start on the comics, Mom.”
“We have to move them if we rent the apartment, Sam.”
“So Dad will come get them.”
Mom and I stare at each other. We’ve been stuck in this stalemate for years where the only winner is the guy who’s had years of free storage.
“It’s not that we’re trying to upend things for you,” Perry says. “For now, my job has instituted a flexible work policy, but that might change and I’ll need to be at the office permanently. We want to capitalize on the opportunity while we still can.”
I look over at the dog bed where Houdini is making old man grumbling noises in his sleep. “What about Houdini?”
“We’re working on getting the documents to take him with us,” Perry says.
“This feels like an eviction notice,” I say.
“Sam, come on now. You’ve been living here for five years. I’ve been happy I could give you a place to stay. But you’re twenty-seven years old—”
“Twenty-six.” She’s right, though: I’m a Charlotte Lucas. I’m twenty-seven years old (almost). I’ve no money and no prospects (true). I’m already a burden to my parents and I’m frightened (pathetic).
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to establish a little more independence? When an adult child moves back home, it’s supposed to be brief. It’s supposed to be due to some kind of shock. A divorce. Losing a job—”
“Right,” I say, gesturing to drive home the point. “That’s exactly what happened.”
I’m ready to unleash a new litany of defenses: Have youseenwhat the job market is like for people my age? Do you understand how ridiculously competitive this field is? I’m saving money by living here, aren’t I? I have a job! Haven’t you seen mebeing productive?
Perry has the expression of someone who’s being held hostage.
“The shock wore off a long time ago, Sam. You shouldwantto move out of my apartment. And don’t you think Perry and I should have a space of our own?”
As much as I lamentmylack of privacy, I’ve never considered that my mom might feel the same way.
Which kind of makes me the asshole here.
“You probably don’t want two Gen Xers as your roommates,” Perry says. They’re being so kind. I wish—so badly—that I could have that same ability to lay down my weapons and acknowledge that I see Mom and Perry’s perspective.
But I’m too upset to do that.
Actually, no. It’s something else.
A terrible feeling that I know all too well forms in the pit of my stomach.
I was never supposed to be having this humiliatingconversation with my mom—a woman who cobbled together the money to send me to arts camp for two summers. Who clapped with tears in her eyes when I got that award at graduation. Who let me graduate high school early so I could start college.
