Page 5 of All at Once

“And are you going to let them?” Georgia asks, almost as a challenge.

I reply, “Let them what?”

“Make this decision for you.”

I bite down on my lip. I don’t want them to make this decision for me. I want to make it formyself.

So all day I find myself debating whether or not I should go. I realize that it would probably be smart to make sure that I didn’t imagine the whole thing. But when I openmy phone, there’s more than just Enrique’s contact information. There’s also a new message from him:

Enrique: Good news, the resort has one suite available still

Jasmine: What a coincidence...

Enrique: Already made up your mind then?

Jasmine: I’ll get back to you on that

When my heart flutters at the sight of his name on my phone screen, I have my answer. Ireallywant to go. The bright side of not going many places means I at least have enough money saved to actually go on this vacation.

I’m just worried about getting there and not knowing what to do. Not just with the whole traveling-by-myself-to-another-continent part. But more so, the possibility of being that close to a guy that I’m attracted to, who I now know might also be interested in me. When I’ve never even gone past sharing glances with a single crush previously. Not between passing periods of university lectures, not at the grocery aisle at my local Trader Joe’s, notever.

Then there’s my parents’ reaction to the possibility of me traveling like this.

I know, you’re probably thinking, she’s 25 andstillhas to ask for her parents’ approval to go on a vacation? I would also be thinking the same. Except, it’s a bit more complicated thanit sounds.

I think my parents invented the word “strict.” To the point where I felt like I was walking on eggshells for most of my life. More recently, I realize, their relentless scrutiny and control on anything that remotely deviated from what they approved on while I was growing up has scarred me more than I thought. Their rules that often felt impossible to navigate, that now I thankfully no longer need to follow.

So no, there is norequirementto tell them. But it’sexpectedof me to still share information like this with them. A hidden rule, fueled by years of spiraled anxiety.

Although maybe,just maybe, a small part of me alsowantsto tell them, hoping it’ll convince them how this would be a great thing for me, to finally face my fears and be more independent the way they always wanted.To make them proud for once. The way I never seemed to do as a kid. Or as a teenager. Or in my early twenties.

Needless to say, waiting at the dining table for the right time to bring up the topic was more stressful than I thought.

After my plan to smoothly ease into the topic desperately failed, my dad places his utensils onto his plate, his patience already starting to diminish just minutes into the conversation.

“Why are you telling us?” he asks, the exhaustion in his eyes standing out, the muscles in his neck tensing up. “You’re an adult.” He crosses his arms. “You can do whatever you want.”

But I know he doesn’t mean any of this. He’s used similar phrases with me ever since I turned 18, more so as something to hold over me knowing that I won’t actually do anything even though I’m old enough. But I don’t want it to work this time.

I take a deep breath and reply, “Because I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

If I had decided not to tell my parents about this vacation, they’d also make it an even bigger deal once they found out that Ihid it from them. Another thing that sadly I’ve learned the hard way before that’s led to days of “the silent treatment.” Apparently generational guilt doesn’t disappear even when you’re a financially independent adult no longer living with your parents.

He continues, “But you don’t care that we both think this is a dumb decision to make.”

“It’s not a smart thing to do, Jasmine,” my mom agrees, the few wrinkles that have begun to appear on her forehead over the last couple years somehow looking deeper.

My dad then gives me a stern expression, one that’s so uncanny, it takes me right back to the ones I remember receiving as a kid. “You’re notnormal,” he scolds. “A normal person wouldn’t even suggest something so stupid.”

His words hit me like punches to the gut, exactly like how they would all throughout my adolescence. He looks at my mom and sarcastically adds, “Maybe she should go to Spain by herself? See what problems she’ll face.”

“Now hold on,” my mom says, glaring at him.

I scoff to myself. This is so typical. My father trying to make me less likemeand more like him. Morenormal.

Whatever that means…

Of course he does exactly what he always does next when he’s done with a conversation. He gets up and justleaves.

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