It’s not supposed to be like that though. We are supposed to have a comfortable life. You are supposed to put in the work, and get the life out of it, and the work gets done.
We are supposed to have a house, a car or two, a yard, connections to other people and families in the neighborhood. Maybe a golden retriever or a fluffy cat scampering around the place, and when the kids are young the sound of happy giggling and playing and toys left around the house. And when the kids grow up some stress because grown ups are famous for finding teens difficult, but frequent moments of happiness and the family coming together interspersed with the apparently inevitable fighting.
A white picket fence kind of life. Living the storybook ideal.
I don’t really have that. I mean, sure, I’ve got a house and we actually have three cars because I got a car at the beginning of the year when I got my license. I know, I was a little late, my birthday was January and I didn’t pass the driving test until July and so I barely got the car in time for the new school year, but I didn’t get a chance to practice driving too much with my dad so it took awhile to build up my skills. And it’s a nice car, I picked out a medium blue Mini Cooper in the bizarrely over sized countryman model. My mom had a jaguar, and my dad had a Ford Expedition SUV. But it was more than cars and why my mom’s is twice as expensive as ours. It was more than a big house that had few luxury furnishings because we wanted to own less things so it was less of a hassle to replace them when they inevitably broke.
But I didn’t really want all of that. It was nice to have, for sure, but it wasn’t my goal. I just want a normal sort of life. A life where you can go through the week with three meals a day. A life where your Mom and Dad come home from work every single day and then you all get together to have a family dinner at the dining table. Or around the couch, I’m not too picky. A life where sometimes, on someone’s birthday or when you get really good grades, you can go out to a family restaurant as a treat and sit down and order dinner together, and everyone talks about how their day went and maybe the dad told dad jokes and the mom laughed along. What a thing that would be.
We didn’t have that. We had a nice life for ourselves, a townhouse we bought a few years ago but was still pretty new-ish, paid off within a year. We had a big back yard and a nice space in the suburbs- close to work but far from the noise of the downtowns. Our house was sparkly clean, our food was fresh and home made and local. It was probably even fair trade, but I didn’t really know. The three of us had gym passes and everything that was supposed to make us a healthy family.
But my mother was always going to the psychologist because she wasn’t healthy. No one really knew what was wrong with her. She’s been diagnosed with all kinds of mental and physical health disorders, but basically what constant new diagnoses mean when nothing has actually changed is that none of the professionals really know what’s wrong. I did though. I’m pretty sure the main thing that was wrong with my mother was her terrible personality, and any health issues she had just made it harder for her to hide what a terrible person she is. I should know. I’m a pretty decent and nice person and I’ve got the same whatever wrong with my mental health that she has.
She’s not decent or nice. I tried to tell my dad that all the time but he never really listens. He loves her, or he thinks that’s love, so he doesn’t want to hear about what a terrible person she is. He’ll come down the stairs for breakfast with bruises on his face and explain she’s really basically a decent person. I’ll take him over to the hospital to get his broken leg put into a cast and he’ll explain that none of it’s her fault. But none of the diagnoses have ever hinted that they’d cause her to not be aware of her actions. Whatever it is she has, we have, is not the reason why she enjoys making sure my dad never stays healthy for long.
I tried to tell him again today and he just shooed me out the door so he could pay the bill for our weekly Saturday date at the pancake place.
When we came back to the house and opened the garage door as usual until we heard funny noises, like someone with breathing problems was having an asthma attack. I felt worried and started to run towards the kitchen and the sounds, but my dad pulled me back and motioned for me to stay where I was, hidden behind a corner of the wall. I was going to argue with him when he put his finger to his lips, motioning for me to stay silent as well. I frowned at him but followed his directions. Mostly it was the look on his face, though, that pushed me to stay still and silent and just wait for him to check it out. It was like thunder clouds had zapped him so his eyebrows had slanted and dropped all the way down with a thick wrinkle in between them on his fore head and a tight slash where his smiling mouth normally was.
He moved forward on
