Itake the steps to my parents’ porch two at a time, determination and a sense of finality driving my long strides. I’m so ready for this to be done.
As usual, Dermott opens the front door before I’ve even reached the top step, and damn if it doesn’t take the wind out of my sails, just a little bit. I’d been irrationally looking forward to repeatedly and annoyingly ringing the doorbell, something I know my parents would find uncouth. Seemed kinda poetic though, like appropriate foreshadowing for the confrontation to come. Because thatiswhat’s coming.
Oh well, I’ve got conviction to carry me through.
I shove past him, not even waiting for his customary greeting or allowing him to take my coat. Just the fact that I know he would have only serves to further my annoyance. I’m treated as aguestin the house I grew up in. It’s never felt like home and the reminder only serves to strengthen my resolve.
Dermot’s lips are a thin white line and he stares down his nose at me in disapproval.
“Where are they?” I demand, but I’m already making my way down the hall before he has a chance to respond.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gardner are taking tea in the parlor,” he says in a clipped voice and following hot on my heels.
The parlor.Yes, they do indeed have one of those, and it’s as stuffy a room as you’d imagine. I make my way toward the west wing, hanging a left past the grand double staircase and circling the floating marble entry table. It’s overflowing with some kind of seasonally appropriate floral arrangement that my mother orders in twice weekly. The parlor is the second door on the right, after my father’s study, and it overlooks the formal gardens. I catch a glimpse of the meticulously groomed shrubbery through the French doors as I burst into the room.
My parents are seated across from each other in matching vintage loveseats with quilted backs and turned wooden legs. My father is reading the paper while my mother supervises a new maid who wheels over a tray table set with their tea.
The young woman has dark bags under her eyes and dirty blonde hair pulled back in a painful-looking bun. Those tired eyes widen at my unexpected and somewhat forceful arrival and she jostles the tea pot in her hand which in turn knocks against the small accent vase of roses on the tray. It teeters precariously but Dermott steps up from behind me and catches it before it can spill over. The entire thing happens in the span of a few seconds, but the clang of the pot against the glass seems to reverberate around the room endlessly and announcing my arrival more effectively than Dermott ever could have. He nonethelessdoesproceed to announce me while also murmuring apologies.
My mother nods to him then waves a hand dismissively towards the maid. “That will be all for now,” she says to the woman who scurries after Dermott pausing to close the door softly behind her.
When my mother turns to me her mouth is twisted up in a scowl of distaste.
“Well, Charles,” she says to my father, who still has yet to even glance up from his paper. “Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence after so rudely disappearing mid-way through dinner the last time we saw him, which was …” she taps a finger to her lips thoughtfully, “monthsago, now. Is your phone broken? I do believe Didi has tried reaching out to you several times since then. You’ve missed quite a few dinners.” She leans back into the tufted velvet seat as though settling in comfortably for the scolding she’s about to dish out.
Well, I have news for her.
“I mean, really Noah,” she continues, “the way you practically ran out of here at the holidays wasextremelyrude. And to do so in front of your father’scolleagues–”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I cut her off–and I add in an exaggerated eye roll for good measure. She flinches back at my cursing which also finally manages to rouse my father’s attention. He slowly lowers the newspaper, folding it carefully in his lap before meeting my eyes. His face is flushed and his nostrils are flaring when he asks, “What did you just say to us?”
I step further into the room, crossing my arms.
“Isaid, ‘I. Don’t. Give. AFuck.’” I enunciate, biting off each word.
My mother shrinks back, a hand pressed to her bosom in shock. “Well, I never–”
“That’s right,” I snap. “You never. You never could be bothered with me unless it was to somehow further your own social climbing.”
Her mouth drops open and they exchange a look.
“You nevercaredabout me. Not as your son, only as a commodity. Apossession. Apawnthat you could train and control, someone who was otherwise invisible to you unless I was contributing to your carefully constructed personas.”
My father leans forward, his hands braced on the seat beside him. His jaw is clenched so tightly I wouldn’t be surprised if he breaks a tooth.
At least I have his undivided attention now.
“Noah,” he says in warning, but I just shake my head.
“And once I stopped doing what you wanted,” I continue, “once I no longer brought you status or therightkind of recognition be it on the football field, or academically, or otherwise, I was of little use to you. A disappointment, a disgrace. Ohhh, you made thatveryclear.”
I nod furiously to myself now, on a roll as the frustration, the pain, I’ve held in for so many years is finally allowed an outlet. Anger spikes in my veins, flooding my system with righteous indignation.
“So that’s right, mother. Younever. You never parented me. You never loved me, you never showed me any kind of care beyond what I could do for you, how I could contribute toyouragenda. You never hugged me, or asked about my day, or how I was feeling. You never told me you were proud of me or treated me like anactualperson.”
I drop my hands to my hips, turning and pacing the length of the room.
“Younever. ButIwill.” I say, pausing and thumping a hand to my chest. “Iwill, withmychild.”
