Page 69 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

“At CPR? I don’t have a problem here.”

Daisy lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Avery. You do the work of three people, you teach a class that isn’t in your job description, and you volunteer for every other little extra thing.” She gives me a little shake. “Boun-dah-ries. You need to set them.”

“What does this have to do with Josh?”

She pulls out two chairs from under the worktable and sits down, indicating that I should too. A little unnerved, I sit.

“Speaking from experience,” she begins, “you’ll never be able to see and hear what Josh is really saying, how he really feels about you, if your own assumptions are shouting too loud inside your noggin.”

“But what does that have to do?—”

She holds up a hand. “You came in here assuming that the people closest to you don’t see you or hear you. Right?”

“Okay, but I was angry.”

“So turn that anger into action. Make a change. Convince yourself that you are worthy of being seen and heard.”

“How do I do that?”

“By asking for what you want.”

“But what if they say no?”

“When you ask, you have to tell them why you’re asking. The reasons why the status quo isn’t working for you. Don’t let them off the hook.”

“What if they still say no?”

“Then you have to decide if you’re willing to live or work with people who don’t respect you. But, honestly, Avery? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

When Jared drove me to CPR, all I could think about was getting home and crawling into bed, hiding under the covers, and crying myself to sleep. But after talking to Daisy, I’m thrumming with energy.

Because I suspect she’s right.

Even though it feels selfish, I need to take my own advice. I may not be a parent, but I am a caregiver, and I have to figure out how to take care of myself, or I’ll end up bitter and alone and mad at the world.

Not even sure what I’m going to say or do when I get home, I’m a little disappointed that Carol and her wife Sarah have left already because I’d been thinking that they’d be easier to confront. They’re the ones who have barely helped out with Mom and Dad. Instead, when I walk into the kitchen, my mom offers to heat up some lasagna for me.

“Sarah made it. It’s somehow good for you and tastes good.”

“Um, sure. Thanks.”

My mom bustles around for a few minutes, plating leftovers and starting the microwave, before pouring me a glass of fizzy water. She’s been on an upswing for the past week or so, which is great, but there’s a part of me that hopes she wasn’t like this all weekend. Not that I want her to suffer, but it doesn’t help my cause if Carol didn’t see what it’s really like here most of the time.

After she sets the food in front of me, she asks, “How was your conference?”

Jeepers.I almost forgot about the conference. “Good. I learned a lot.”

I push the pasta around to let the steam out. And to will myself to eat it.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing. Just tired.” I shake my head, knowing I should talk to my mom about needing my own life, my own space, but not sure how to start. “Did you have a good weekend?”

My mom doesn’t like to talk about her health. I can hardly blame her. It must be so hard to never know how you’re going to feel when you wake up. Not to mention how frustrating it is that doctors still don’t know how to treat chronic COVID.

“It wasn’t bad. We didn’t do too much. Sarah spoiled us with her cooking.”

My sister’s wife is an excellent chef. Usually, I’d be scarfing down anything she made. Tonight, though, I’m too full of feelings to fit anything else inside.

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