Andcalmed me down, no questions asked.
Even though the last time we saw each other, I exploded at him and then stormed off like a sulky teenager. All that is what keeps me firmly on the porch, unsure of how to act, caught between two separate versions of me.
“Did you get through traffic okay?” I ask once Dad has gotten out of the car.
“Was alright,” he huffs, crossing the driveway and taking the steps up the porch two at a time. “It’s so good to see you, son,” he mutters, clapping one heavy hand down on my shoulder.
The scratch in his voice makes me swallow hard, feeling the same tightness in my throat.
“You too, Dad,” I rasp out, then, almost at the same time, we pull each other into a hug.
“I'm so sorry!” I manage, at the same time as my dad rumbles out, “Don't you scare me like that again.”
“Oh, my dramatic men.” Mom chuckles behind us, but a moment later, her arms wrap around me, too.
There's more I need to say, but not right away. After we all let go of the embrace, I show my parents inside and introducethem to Sasha, who's on her way out, and to Marisol, who makes coffee for everyone while happily chatting about her studies.
Dad wastes no time wandering into the backyard, always on the lookout for something to do. I leave him to it and pull my mom upstairs to show her my plant collection.
“If you'd like, you could stay here?” I offer my mom as she's giving special attention to my little olive tree.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re in the hotel with the lakeside view,” Mom says proudly, and I struggle to bite back a grin. There are dozens of hotels near the shore, and I guess the look out over Lake Champlainissomething people come to Bonham for. Not just to make sure their college student son isn't having a panic attack.
“You really gave us a fright,” she says as if reading my mind. “And I don't just mean calling in the middle of the night. Storming out and then not texting or calling for so long?” She takes a deep breath, then shakes her head. “I hope you're planning on talking to your father about it?”
I duck my head but nod. “Of course. And…and you too.”
“Oh?”
I nod again, opening and closing my mouth a few times. I don’t have the words for it yet, and Mom seems to understand. She plucks a yellowing leaf from the olive tree, worrying it between her thumb and forefinger.
“Alright, we’ll talk about it later. Let me find your father before he starts renovating your shed.” She winks at me, then reaches for my shoulder, holding on for a moment. “You should probably find a sunnier spot for this one.”
I chuckle, clearing my throat when the sound is just a bit shaky. “Yeah, I know.”
After I carried the little tree downstairs, I drag my parents outside for a walk. I feel antsy, and it’s unavoidable to talk about what I’ve been putting off, but I don’t want to do so at the diningtable of the Nook, feeling exposed to any of my roommates who might come back home. I’d love for Micah to be there, but it’s not like I can lock out all the others.
In the end, this is a conversation I need to have with my parents. We don't make it very far into the forest path that starts at the end of our cul-de-sac before I take a deep breath, hoping to ease into the conversation rather than cannonball into it.
“I…I wanted to talk to you. About my studies. And apologize for how I behaved when I left.”
The trees wrap around us, quiet and non-judgmental. I've slowed down now that we have gotten somewhat cut off from the houses just beyond the tree line.
Dad briefly looks at Mom but then nods, a silent acknowledgment of the need for conversation, letting me take the lead in this, for which I'm glad. There's a lot I feel like I need to get out.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I start, glad that we’re walking and I can look elsewhere. Being honest about my feelings and why I hid my change in major from my parents feels like peeling back the layers of myself, and I’m once again on the brink of tears.“Especially you, Dad. I didn’t want to make you feel like…like I thought badly of what you did. Or that I didn’t like the work. I do. I just…I’d miss taking care of animals. Figuring out their problems, seeing them improve—or working harder to get there. I like helping, but I don’t…cherries don’t get sick like that.”
I can feel my dad’s eyes brush the side of my face, but I don’t turn. It’s easier to tell this to the surrounding trees as we slowly pass along under their canopy.
“I could do it, but sitting there after having just finished one harvest and already planning the next when the fruit isn’t even processed or sold, I just—I'm afraid it’d make me hate all of it.” I shake my head. “All of that just piled up until I felt all this…pressure, I couldn’t—I love the farm; it'll always be my home. I admire you and Mom for running it like you do, but I couldn’t do that. And I'm so scared that if I tried, I’d become…resentful.” I gasp in a breath too quickly and then another, having to stop myself by holding both of them in and then exhaling as slowly as possible before I breathe in again.
“I'm sorry that I never talked to you about it.” That is the one thing I do regret. Not changing my major or coming here to study, but never talking to my parents about how their plans and visions for the future weren't my own.
“You know, your grandpa never asked either, but it was…I always wanted the farm. Wanted to keep the family business. I…I assumed it was what you’d want too. That you’d feel as proud as I did when you finally got to take over. I’m…” Dad clears his throat, and I swallow thickly. It’s harder than it should be to keep looking away, but he granted me the privacy I needed when I welled up, so I do the same. I guess we Woodrow men really are stubborn mules, just like Mom said.
“I’m sorry I made you feel pressured instead of…mh…like you could talk to me about having second thoughts.”
“It’s okay,” I choke out, sniffling when Dad drapes a heavy arm over my shoulders. “I did feel proud you’d trust me with all of it. But also…it felt so much like—like you were constantly saying goodbye? It was so soon after the accident, a-and I already didn't want it, and with everything else that happened, it made me want it even less.”
