Page 47 of Maybe in Another Life

“Yeah.”

There’s a stream of questions about logistics andDid you remembertype things, followed byI’ll miss yousandI love yousall around.

Then she’s gone. And it’s just my parents and me.

It’s never just my parents and me.

And right this second, looking at them as they look back at me, I realize I have nothing to say to them. I have nothing to talk about, nothing I want to do, nothing I need from them, nothing to give them.

I love my parents. I really, really do. But I love them the way you love the grandmother you aren’t as close to, the way you love your uncle who lives across the country.

They are not my support system.

And they need to go.

“You guys should feel free to go home, too,” I say, as kindly as my voice will allow.

“Nonsense,” my mother says, sitting down. “We’re here for you. We’re going to be with you every step of the way.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t need you to be.” As much as I try to make it sound casual, it comes out raw and heavy.

The two of them look at me, unsure how to respond, and then my mom starts crying.

“Mom, please don’t cry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she says. “It’s fine.” She wipes her tears. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I just... need to get some water.”

And then she’s gone. Out into the hallway.

I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have just pretended for a little while longer.

“I’m sorry,” I say to my dad. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at the floor. “I really am. I’m sorry I said that.”

He shakes his head, still not looking at me. “No, don’t be.”

He looks up and meets my eye. “We know you don’t need us. We know you have a whole life you’ve managed to create for yourself without us.”

Some life.

“I—”

“You don’t have to say anything. Your mom has a harder time facing all of this than I do, but I’m glad you said something, honestly. We should talk about it freely, be honest with each other more.” He comes closer to me and grabs my hand.

“We screwed up, your mother and I. We screwed up.” My dad has strikingly gorgeous green eyes. He’s my dad, so I don’t often notice, but when he looks at you with the intensity he’s looking at me with now, it’s hard to ignore. They are green the way blades of grass are green, the way dark emeralds are green. “When we got to London and moved in, both your mother and I realized we had made a huge mistake not bringing you with us. We never should have let you stay in Los Angeles. Never should have left you.”

I look away. His green eyes are now starting to glass over. His voice is starting to quiver. I can’t handle it. I look at my hands.

“Every time we called you,” he continues, “the two of us would get off the phone and cry. But you always seemed fine. So we kept thinking that you were fine. I think that was our biggest mistake. Taking you at your word and not wanting to tell you what to do. I mean, you seemed happy with the Hudsons. Your grades were good. You got into a good school.”

“Right,” I say.

“But looking back on it now, I can see that doesn’t mean you were fine.”

I wait, trying to see if he will elaborate.

“It’s a hard thing,” he says. “To admit you have failed your child. You know, so many of my friends nowadays are empty-nesters, and they say that the day you realize your kids don’t need you anymore is like a punch to the gut. And I never say it, but I always think to myself that knowing your kid doesn’t need you may hurt, but knowing your kid did, and you weren’t there... it’s absolutely unbearable.”

“It was only a couple of years,” I say. “I would have gone to college anyway and left home then.”

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