Moving back in with my parents after my break up was so hard.
The first day back was the worst. I spent it cleaning out my bedroom and emptying out the few boxes I’d brought home. I did a lot of sulking and hiding from my parents. I couldn’t face them. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions. I couldn’t. I felt broken, guilty, defeated, stupid, humiliated and just overall overwhelmed.
My parents, on the other hand, were ecstatic to have me back. While their shared abhorrence of each other had driven me out of our home, their mutual adoration of me had pulled me back in. I always knew I’d be welcomed back with open arms. It was really no surprised when I’d texted my mom a week prior and asked if I could move back that she’d replied with a simple, “okay.” And that was that. No further questions asked. I wanted to keep it that way.
My dad called me down for dinner around 7 o’clock. He’d prepared his patented Sunday night chicken and potatoes with a tomato salad. Despite it tasting extra good that night, I had little appetite. The three of us sat at the kitchen table watching an episode of Master Chef. I didn’t talk much, but I did realize I had missed these quiet nights at home. But I still wasn’t glad to be back.
After dinner, my mother followed me to my bedroom, which annoyed me greatly. I had a full evening of wallowing in self-pity planned which she was interrupting. I just wanted to be alone. Forever. Like I was destined to be in life.
“So I have some ideas,” my mom said as she motioned to the wall in front of my bed. I gazed in that direction numbly. The blue wall had large white patches from where some old shelves had been removed. I didn’t care about my stupid walls. “We could put up new shelves. Or paint over the white with the same blue. Or a different blue? Oh! Maybe like an accent wall?”
I rolled my eyes. The bubbly optimism bouncing from her voice made my skin crawl. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well what do you want?” She pushed.
“What I want,” I hissed, venom dripping from my words, “is to not live here!”
As soon as the sentence had escaped my lips, I knew it shouldn’t have. She didn’t deserve that. She was being nice. She was being hospitable. She wasn’t forcing me to live there. She was doing me a great favour. I should have been grateful to have such accommodating parents. Even if I didn’t want to have be living with them again. Even if I felt like an utter failure. A total fuck up. At least I had a place to live.
A different mom might have taken my words to heart. They may have backed off, or been offended, or maybe even cried. But not my mother.
“I know,” she rolled her eyes dramatically right back at me, without even a flinch. Then she gave me a sympathetic smile and explained, “moving back in with your grandparents after my divorce was so hard. I couldn’t even stand the sound of Abuela’s voice.”
I giggled, a sad, confused, honest giggle, before she added quickly, “but that doesn’t mean she ever stopped talking.”
Well, my mom hasn’t either, and I couldn’t be luckier.