“What do you mean?”
“Do you think-” What I’m about to say is so absurd, so against everything I’ve centered my life around, that I struggle to spit it out. “Do you think I live my life for myself?”
It’s not meant to sound so dramatic. The last thing I want my parents to think is that I’m having a life-altering realization that could completely upend how I carry myself day-by-day.
I blink. That’s exactly what’s happening. But they shouldn’t be exposed to that information.
“Who else are you going to live it for?” My dad laughs again, taking the last can out of the suitcase. From this angle he can’t see my mom’s furrowed brows.
I answer dejectedly. “For you two.”
It feels like my world stops. I never thought I’d have to outline this for my parents. It’s been second nature for as long as I can remember.
My dad doesn’t seem phased. He continues unpacking the miscellaneous items. My mom repeats herself.
“What do you mean?”
I wave my hands around the room. Left, right, up, down. At everything and at nothing. There’s no item in particular I’m pointing at, but there must be something here to symbolize how desperately I’ve worked to please them throughout the years. It’s the singular constant I’ve had for every day of my life.
“Everything I do is for you guys. To make you happy and to be a daughter worth what you’ve given up.”
“Liliana.” Her demeanor shifts. I can hear it in her voice, the way it shifts from the fun, sing-song tone to dry and flat. The charging cord is forgotten back in the mess of her carry-on, arms motioning for me to take a seat next to her on the couch. “You’re confusing me.”
“You’reconfusingme.” My mom places her hand on my shoulder, reminding me that she’s there but giving me the space to express what I have to. I didn’t know this was something I had to say aloud. “I don’t understand why you think I’d be making decisions solely on what I want to do in life.”
My mom scoffs. “Maybe because that’s how you’re supposed to live life?”
“That’s not how you and dad live yours.”
“Of course it is.” The bag of souvenirs isn’t holding my dad’s attention anymore. He walks around the coffee table and sits on it, directly in front of us.
He gives me a look similar to my mom’s. Lips pursed, jaw squared. Like I’m the one speaking in riddles, not them.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth. It causes me to blunt.
“You’ve never made a choice for your own happiness in my entire life.”
“Watch the tone.” My mom warns me.
I take a breath. I’m not annoyed, despite the lies my parents are so carelessly telling me. Just confused as to why they’re feigning ignorance.
Dad’s eyes point in a challenge. “Name one thing your mother and I have done against our own happiness.”
“Stay in Boston.”
It’s both the quietest and loudest thing I’ve said all day.
My parents’ stern expressions fall. My dad’s glazes over in defeat, and my mom’s in understanding. My blood runs cold.
I’m right.
I’ve always known my life was lived selflessly. I was raised that way, by two people who breathe that principle into every part of their own lives. In the beats of silence, I sit with the astonished looks on their faces when I accuse them of not living life for themselves. I consider that maybe my parents don’t realize they’ve raised me to be just like them. Giving. Sacrificing.
“You decided not to move back to O’ahu because I decided to go to grad school.”
The first time they said the retirement plans were off, they insisted it wasn’t because of me. Today, they stay quiet. Just glance at each other like they’ve been caught committing a crime.
They’re backed into a metaphorical corner, because for once I get to say I’m right, and they’re wrong. I can’t stop myself from running with it—from giving them example after example of what they’ve done for me throughout my life.
