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Samantha reaches eagerly for my mom and I am pretty much forgotten as they fawn over her. It doesn’t bother me. I adore how much they love her. And honestly, I’m ready for a break after that flight.

“We missed you so much,” Dad says in a soft voice to my daughter.

I chuckle. “It was only one night. You guys act like we were gone for a month.”

After being a military spouse, one night apart from a loved one seems like a cakewalk.

Dad smiles at me. “I know, but the house was so quiet without you both. How did your trip go?”

Mom and Dad both look at me expectantly, awaiting my answer.

I shrug. “It was good? Kind of strange to talk to a white cross … but I feel better now. Like I can finally move forward.”

“That’s great, Soph,” Mom says as she brushes a ringlet from Samantha’s forehead.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I hear the familiar creak of the original hardwood floors. My parent’s house is a grand Victorian-craftsman. They’ve updated the home and added on to it but kept most of the original finishes.

My dad inherited the house from his father, who inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father. I’m sure someday my oldest brother, Madden will inherit the home. The Windell family obviously holds onto traditions and family heritage very strongly.

Grabbing some ice cream from the freezer and a spoon from a drawer in my mother’s immaculate and organized kitchen, I open the lid to the ice cream and dip my spoon in.

Right before the ice cream hits my lips, my mom interrupts me. “Excuse me, young lady, we are not uncivilized barbarians here. You can get yourself a bowl.”

And there it is. The mothering tone. Part of the reason I need to be on my own again. It’s wonderful to have their help with Samantha, but I miss my independence with a passion.

I remove a porcelain bowl from the cabinet and scoop some of the cotton candy-flavored ice cream into it. I realize that’s a childish flavor, but it’s my absolute favorite. And I need something sweet after that stressful flight.

I swallow a bite of my ice cream before interrupting my parent’s baby talk with my daughter.

“So … I think I’d like to find my own place.”

They stop fussing over Samantha abruptly and slowly bring their faces up to look at me.

“Why would you want to do that?” Mom asks, the corners of her mouth turning down.

I shift on my feet. I’ve been dreading this conversation, knowing Mom and Dad wouldn’t like it. “Mom, I’m thirty years old. I need my own space. I appreciate all your help with Samantha and you both for letting us stay here. But it’s not a permanent solution.”

Dad’s expression turns serious. “Soph, being a single mom isn’t easy. Why don’t you just stay here and let us help? We love having you both here.”

What I don’t want to tell them is that Sam and I agreed we’d raise our kids independently, without the financial assistance of my parents or my trust fund. He wanted our kids to learn how to work hard and earn their own way in life. And after growing up around wealth, I wholeheartedly agreed.

Things are different now that Sam is gone. I’ll use what I need to take care of Samantha and myself. But I still hold true to the idea of raising her to work hard and be independent.

And I can’t very well do that while I’m living with my parents.

I know they won’t understand this decision. They both came from money, and my father is very successful on top of that. They gave my brothers and me every advantage in life, and I’m grateful. But one of many things I loved about Sam was how down-to-earth and unpretentious he was. I loved his drive and work ethic and how he never looked down on anyone who had less than him.

I want our daughter to have those same values.

My parents always had such big dreams for my brothers and extremely high expectations. Not only to carry on the Windell family legacy, but to become just as successful as my father. But the expectations for me? Basically, just to marry a rich guy and become a trophy wife.

Growing up, all of my friends were unmotivated in school and life, knowing they had their trust funds as a backup plan.

When I met Sam, he opened my eyes to how hardworking and generous people can be. His motives in life were simply to serve his country and leave the world a better place in some small way. I loved the way he saw the world. His zest for life was such a contrast to the lackluster expectation of being some wealthy man’s arm candy. And it’s my greatest hope Samantha inherits her father’s mentality.

My dad is incredibly career-focused, but it’s not because work ethic is part of who he is. I think he works so hard because he feels the need to impress people and to fit into his and my mom’s social circle.

My parents aren’t bad people. I love them very much. I just want something different for my daughter.

Something not so stuffy and proper.

“It’s much easier for me to watch Samantha when you live here.” My mom states, interrupting my thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, I answer, “Heartland Academy offers full-time preschool. Samantha can start this year since she’ll turn three. So, I won’t need you to watch her anymore.”

My mom’s head jerks back slightly, like someone slapped her.

“I know you’ve enjoyed watching her, Mom. I’m sorry.”

My parents always hated that I wanted to go into teaching. They told me that teachers are poor, and teaching was a waste of time. But I adore kids and love my job.

“Are you finally going to use your trust fund then? You couldn’t possibly support yourself and Samantha on a teacher’s salary.” Dad states, not bothering to disguise his doubtfulness.

People support themselves on a teacher’s salary all the time, but I will not start an argument with my father. “I’m just brainstorming. I’m not in a rush.” I take another bite of ice cream.

Mom purses her lips. “Would you please take smaller bites? Your eating habits are probably the reason little Sam has such a grotesque appetite.”

It’s little comments like this that make me even more anxious to find my own place.