In her eyes, her parents were people who had more experience and intuition than her. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t able to think for herself but it was the fact that a second opinion was important to her.
“It’s with my church. This trip to Guatemala would be really good on my resume—”
“No.”
“But why not? It’s only a week and it’s related to my profess—”
“No.”
“I don’t understand why not. It’s a great opportunity and—”
“No.”
“It’s not even because you don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re just saying ‘no’ because it’s with the church.”
She doesn’t receive a response after that. It was normal to hear such a response from her mother. Never would she have thought that such a short and simple word could inflict so much pain. And even when she tried to focus her attention on the TV screen hanging against the wall, it was hard to hold back the tears the threatened to overflow. Threatening. Like a ship trying to go through a deadly storm.
It didn’t make sense to her. No sense at all. It’s different when you say you can’t solve a Physics problem because the answer is actually attainable. But unlike Physics, her mother didn’t come with an answer key.
“That’s the thing with you. If you don’t like the idea, you flat out say ‘no’. You don’t even try to listen to what I have to say.”
No answer. A sigh from her father could be heard from across the table.
“I feel like if I didn’t have the heart to be in the medical field, you would live your life being unhappy with me. It’s like you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself unless I become a doctor or a lawyer or something…”
Not even a glance from her.
“It’s not like I can’t think for myself. I can. I’m twenty-two. I don’t just dive into a decision without thinking about the pros and cons. And certainly not without talking it out with you two.”
Her father says something along the lines of understanding how she’s feeling but she can’t process his words when her emotions are slowly slipping out of her control.
“…I don’t see why you need our support if you’re capable of making your own decisions.”
The ship is tilting dangerously in the storm.
“Because! What do you mean I don’t need your support? You’re my parents.”
Her father interrupts what feels like a monologue to her and begins using comforting words.
“Your mother and I feel the same on every matter. It’s just that we express our concerns differently.”
Gathering all her courage, she looks over at the older female sitting next to her.
“Just because your mother says ‘no’ right away doesn’t mean she’s bad. She just doesn’t know the details and your part is to fill her in on that.”
She could tell by the way her mother’s eyebrows were knitted together and even though she was silent, she could tell her mother was greatly disappointed. Yet again.
“I know it’s hard to talk to her at times. But that doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”
Although the last thing he says should be something that deeply moves her, she’s too lost to let the words sink into her head. Just like the ship lost at sea. It’s hard to keep her focus on analyzing her mother’s expressions, especially when her vision blurs over and all she sees is the white from the napkin she’s holding against her eyes.
On their way back to her school, there was an indescribable silence in the car. Looking out the window, she dreaded life. And Mondays. She wanted so badly to blame all of it on Monday. The car stops and she climbs out, pulling her backpack on. Was it always this heavy? Maybe because it’s Monday. Yeah.
“Bye. Take care.” Bye, grandmother.
“I’ll talk to you soon. See you on May 13.” Bye, father.
“Bye.”
She had to turn around and look back to make sure that it was her mother who had said that. They hand her a plastic bag like those from the Chinese supermarkets and they tell her to take it home, warm it up, and drink it. They say their farewells again before they leave and she’s too scared, too hurt, too tired to even lift her head up to watch the car disappear around the corner.
She unties the bag and looks inside, noticing that it’s the melon soup that her mother usually makes for her. Yes, the kind of soup that takes several hours to boil. In that moment, she could feel her stomach churn and her eyes stinging again.
Why did it have to be this way?
Why does everything with her mother have to be so difficult?
Why couldn’t it just have been a simple, happy lunch?
And while she leans and crouches against the brick wall, it feels like nothing describes her emotions better than the imagery of a sinking ship.
There is nothing more frightening than a storm at sea in the dark of night, not to mention the howling winds. The ship’s overflowing with water. It’s too late. It’s sinking slowly but that’s the worst — when everything happens so slowly that you see the impending end but when it really hits you, it hits you on a totally worse level than what you expected.
Anonymous
