Or maybe it just feels that way because I realized last night that I’ve been living my life at a volume chosen by other people, not myself.
The house is awake, and filled with all the noises that are expected: the coffee pot gurgles as it brews, voices float from the living room, and I can vaguely hear whatever Phoebe has on television.
I hover in the kitchen doorway, watching my mom move.
She’s still in the same bathrobe she’s worn for the last decade, her hair in a low ponytail, and moving through a morning routine she’s done for as long as I can remember. Maybe she was even doing it before I existed.
She opens a cabinet and pulls down mugs, one for each adult. One after the other, she organizes the sugar and various creamers, as if none of us are capable of getting it ourselves. Without saying a word, she tops off Dad’s coffee, then sets it beside him on the side table. And then she’s in the kitchen,wiping down counters that haven’t even been used since the last time she did it.
If Aiden hadn’t quietly reminded me to pause, to see if Iactuallyneeded to do something—like check on Phoebe when I’d only given her medicine ten minutes before—I think I’d still be caught in the same loop she is.
I’m sure we’ve got different reasons for doing it, but it doesn’t change the fact that she taught me to align my value with how useful I am.
I’m far from healed, but I’m aware enough now that I don’t grab a dish towel and work alongside her. Gain that silent gold star I thought I needed.
Instead, I grip the doorframe and stay where I am.
“Are you going to hover ’till breakfast, or do you want coffee?” Mom asks, without turning around.
I huff out a small laugh. “Not sure yet.”
She pauses, then stops. Like she’s seeing me for the first time.
I exhale slowly. My heart’s thudding like I’m about to jump off something high, which, emotionally speaking, I guess I am.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask. “And can you… Just listen for a minute? I promise I’m not mad. I just need to say it out loud.”
She goes very still. Then she pulls out the chair across from me and sits, folding her hands on the table like she’s bracing for a pop quiz.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m listening.”
I stare into my coffee like it might give me the right words.
“When you came to Colorado and Phoebe got sick,” I start, “you told me you and Dad always knew I’d be fine. Because I didn’t cause trouble. Because I could handle things.”
Mom winces, just a little. “I remember.”
“I know you meant it as a compliment,” I say quickly. “I really do. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.” I swallow. “I likedbeing the ‘good’ kid who was so responsible and never caused problems. It made me feel good about myself, so I worked to stay that kid.”
She looks confused, and I get it. None of this was something I realized overnight.
“Hear me out,” I say, gently. “You and Dad never said to me, ‘We will only love you if you stay out of our hair and help around here.’ But it still took root in my head. I had to stay busy to earn my place. Perform and be worthy. Stay small, and people will love you for not getting in the way.”
She presses a hand to her mouth and leans against the wooden back of the chair. “Oh, Chloe.”
“And as I told you, I carried that with me,” I push on. “To college. To Trevor. To Storywood Ridge. If I proved my business, if I showed how valuable I was, people would want to keep me.” My eyes sting as I say the words. “People would tell me how proud of me they were, that I could do so much alone. Staying busy became synonymous with being valuable. Needed. Important.”
It makes sense when I say it out, in a twisted sort of way. But the things people tell us about ourselves, whether it’s through actions or through words, matter.
They shape how we talk to ourselves. Our beliefs about relationships. How we’ll parent our own children.
I’m exhausted from carrying it for so many years.
Mom presses her lips together, and I’m grateful she’s not trying to soothe it over. That’s not what I’m asking for or need. I just want her to know how I feel.
“I came home because Dad scared me,” I say softly. “Because I couldn’t live with the what-ifs if I didn’t come. But I also think I needed to realize this about myself. Aiden’s been helping me unlearn some of this, but it helps to see where I learned it. I’m tired, Mom. I don’t want to keep living my life worrying thatif I disappoint someone, they’ll leave. If suddenly, I can’t do everything I was doing, no one will need me anymore. I’m tired of trying to outthink every scenario so I don’t just disappear.”
A tear spills down her cheek, and she swipes it away. “We never wanted you to disappear. That’s a ridiculous thing for a child to shoulder, and I’m so sorry.”
