“So talk about it. When you get back.”
“What if talking doesn’t fix it?”
“Then at least you tried. That’s better than wondering.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that being honest could solve problems rather than create new ones. But sitting in my childhood bedroom, having just blown up at my father, honesty felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
“I should go,” I said. “Before Mom comes looking for me.”
“Hang in there. One more day.”
“Yeah. One more day.”
I ended the call and sat there for a long time, staring at nothing. My phone buzzed—another message from Emily asking when I’d be down. I ignored it.
Eventually, I made myself go back downstairs.
Dinner was excruciating.
Emily and Mark descended on the house with their kids like a small tornado, and Mom went into grandmother mode, all warmth and indulgence she never showed me.
Dad barely acknowledged my presence. We sat at opposite ends of the table, the turkey between us like neutral territory, and made careful small talk that avoided everything that mattered.
Emily filled the silence with stories about Mark’s promotion, their new house, the chaos of raising two kids under five. But every few minutes, she’d steer the conversation back to me—asking about my classes, my plans after graduation. I watched her effort—the way she kept trying to draw me in, the pointed looks she shot Dad whenever he started to interrupt, the gentle redirect anytime Mom’s questions veered too close to uncomfortable territory—and felt a swell of gratitude I couldn’t quite express.
When the meal finally ended, I helped Mom clear dishes while everyone else retreated to the living room. She moved around me carefully, like I was something fragile that might break.
“Your father loves you,” she said. “He just wants what’s best.”
“No, he doesn’t. He wants what makes him comfortable.”
“Seth—”
“Mom.” I set down the plate I’d been scraping. “I need to ask you something.”
She went still. “Okay.”
“Yesterday. When you made that comment about how I could tell you anything…” I forced myself to meet her eyes. “Did you say that for any particular reason?”
Her expression crumpled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
The silence stretched. In the living room, one of the kids shrieked, and Emily laughed. Mom’s hands twisted in the dish towel.
“I want you to be happy,” she said finally. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I want you to feel like you can talk to someone.”
“But?”
“But your father…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It would be hard for him. To understand.”
“And you? Would it be hard for you?”
She looked at me with eyes that were wet but not spilling over. “I just want you to be safe. To have a good life. To not make things harder than they need to be.”
The answer landed like I’d known it would—loving, well-meaning, and completely missing the point.
“Okay,” I said. “I understand.”
