Through the kitchen window, I can hear my mom and dad talking. Dad’s on my side, for now at least, but my mom just keeps on repeating, “It can’t be too long before they chew her up and spit her out. She does the best with what god gave her, but do you really think she’s ready to handle that kind of life?”
My phone beeps and the discussion inside stops.
I read the message. It says, “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”
I write back, “Just the usual.” After sending the message, it occurs to me that he has no way of knowing what “the usual” is, so I enter another message, saying, “She has it in her head that I’m still four years old and couldn’t possibly make it in the real world. Any advice?”
“She’s just not built to stand on her own two feet,” I can hear my mom telling my dad. “She needs someone to look after her and point her in the right direction. Otherwise, who knows what’s going to happen?”
It’s that last sentence that really catches me.
My phone beeps.
The new message reads, “Not much you can do. Moms are moms, and in my experience, there’s not much you can do to change their minds about anything.”
I write back, “Your mom does this kind of thing, too, huh?”
My dad’s inside saying, “At some point, you’ve just got to trust that she knows the right thing to do. That’s our job as parents: To teach our children the best we can and then let them live their own lives.”
Mom has apparently either forgotten or has stopped caring that I can hear her as she bellows with laughter and, in a loud voice says, “Do you really want to know what kind of a life she would choose to lead if we didn’t give her the right direction? Do you remember that boy—oh, what was his name?—Billy or something. He was the one with the Camaro.”
“Dear, you’ve got to let that go. People make mistakes,” my dad says.
He’s a great ally to have for about the first ten minutes of every disagreement. The problem is that he gets tired of arguing so quickly that anything longer than that ten minutes and he’s just going to say whatever he needs to say to halt the disagreement.
“It’s a wonder she knew to use a condom,” my mom adds and my phone beeps again.
“Yeah,” I call, “that means I can hear you, Mom!”
I look at the screen and read, “She used to, but we lost her a few years back to cancer.”
That was a little more real than I was expecting.
“I’m sorry,” I write and try futilely to think of something to add. There’s nothing, so I just send the message.
The back door opens and my dad comes out.
“Mind if I sit with you?” he asks.
“Go ahead,” I tell him.
“You know, I used to hold you out here when you were just a baby and we’d watch the stars come out at night.”
“I remember,” I smile. “Not that far back, obviously, but we did that for a long time.”
“I always loved this time of night for that reason,” he says. “You know, your mother and I just want to have you close because we love you. It’s not that we’re trying to keep you from having your own life. We just want to be a part of it.”
It still surprises me that I forget how my dad can be even more effective with the art of the guilt trip than my mom can. If guilting was a sport, they’d take gold and silver every time.
“You are a part of it,” I tell him. “I can come visit more, but I can’t just give up my life because Mom still wants to treat me like a toddler.”
“She loves you, dear,” my dad says. “I love you, too. We just want what’s best for you.”
“Then trust me,” I tell him. “I’m doing great on my own. I have problems just like anyone else, but I find solutions. I’m actually doing some really great things in the city. My store remodel just got finished, and—”
“Do you have any pictures?” he asks.
I waited until after Eric and his guys left, but I did snap some photos with my phone, so I pull up my picture gallery and hand it over to him.
“Wow,” he says. “It looks like they did a really good job. I love the sunken floor right there.”
“Yeah, and that window used to only go to this corner,” I tell him, pointing at the picture, “but I had them take it around the side so people coming down the street can get a view of the window displays before they get to the store. People are much more likely to see something if it’s in front of them, or close to in front of them than if they’re already walking past it.”
“Didn’t you say they started this a couple months ago?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Why’d it take them so long to finish it?”
My dad is probably the only person on the planet in front of whom I’d feel embarrassed about changing my mind so much, so I just tell him, “Some of the materials they needed took longer to ship than we thought they would, but it came out pretty nice, huh?”
“It looks great, honey,” he says and hands the phone back to me. “How much did that cost?”
“You really don’t want to know,” I tell him.
“I really do,” he says.
“No, New York prices are different than prices almost anywhere else. It would just sound like a waste of money.”
“I know New York is expensive,” he says. “Come on, how much?”
“All told,” I start, “a little over one sixty.”
I’m already cringing in expectation of my dad’s response.
“One sixty what?” he asks.
Now I’m cringing harder. “Thousand, Dad, it was a little over a hundred and sixty thousand. It was going to be a little cheaper, but I thought of some changes before they were done and I had them implement it.”
“Where did you get that kind of money? You didn’t take out one of those payday loans, did you?” my dad asks.
I laugh. He’s so sincere, and he’s just looking at me with those big eyes, but that just makes me laugh even harder.
“Dad,” I wheeze, “I really don’t think those places deal in that kind of cash. I took out a normal bank loan, but I was able to pay a chunk of it with my savings.”
“How much?” he asks.
My phone beeps, but unfortunately, my clandestine friend will have to wait a minute or two.
“A little over half,” I tell him. “I like to save most of my money. Investing in the future is better than blowing all your money for a fleeting present.”
“Well, I’m impressed,” he says. “That must have cleaned you out, though. We can’t let you pay for our—”
“I left about twenty-thousand in my account,” I tell him. “I didn’t want to completely gut my savings. After all, you never know when times are going to get tight.”
“Where did you get all this money?” he asks.
“From my store,” I tell him. “Despite what Mom thinks, it’s actually a really good concept.”
“Don’t be too hard on your mother,” he says. “You know that she has trouble letting go.”
“I get that,” I tell him, “but that doesn’t mean that she just gets to belittle me when she won’t even listen to what I’m doing with my life. I’m not her little girl anymore.”
I regret the words because I can already hear the cliché they’re going to elicit before he says it.
“You’re always going to be her little girl,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “I’ve seen the Lifetime movies, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t let me grow up. Whether she likes it or not, I already have.”
“I know, dear,” he says. “You’ve grown up so fast.”
My phone beeps again.
“So, who’s sending you messages?” he asks. “Is it a boyfriend?”
“No,” I tell him. “It’s just some guy. I don’t even know him.”
“You can block him,” my dad says. “I read that online.”
“We’re living in a strange world,” I tell him. “It starts with parents coming to a functional, albeit gradual, understanding of technology and where does it end? Next thing we know, kids will start doing their homework willingly and politicians will stop accepting bribes to sway their votes. It would be madness!”
My dad chuckles, and it’s still one of the most comforting sounds in the world to me.