My parents didn’t think I’d move out. Every day before the big day, my mother taunted me. “How are you going to cook?” she would say. “You can’t take any of my dishes.” Or “What are you going to use for towels? I don’t have any extra to give you.” Or “You don’t even know how to get your utilities turned on. I’ll bet you never even thought of that. Did you?” For every brief moment we came into contact, she badgered me about my decision to move out.
What my mother didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to tell her, was that I had been planning this for months. I worked more than 40 hours a week to buy cookware, dishes, utensils, towels, blankets, cleaning supplies, seasonings, cans of tuna and vegetables, and even toilet paper. I hid all my belongings in my hope chest and closet under lock and key. My little pink porcelain pig held $2000 in cash. I had also been conspiring with my best friend’s mother. After I found an apartment, she helped me get set up for utilities and a telephone and even said I could have her old couch and coffee table.
When the day finally arrived, my best friend’s boyfriend backed into the driveway with his pickup truck. I didn’t have much furniture from my childhood bedroom. I had a twin sized bed and small dresser in the white and gold French style, a bookshelf, a small stereo system, my hope chest and two big boxes of goods from my closet. As my friends and I struggled with the heavy bed frame down the hallway, my parents sat quietly side by side on the couch like they were sitting in a pew at a funeral. They seemed to stare unseeingly at the blaring television. Even when we dropped the bookcase, they didn’t even seem to stir. Or when we banged the headboard and dented the wall, my mother didn’t even make a peep. When we finished loading everything into the truck, I went back inside to say goodbye.
“Well I guess I’ve got everything,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll try to call you every day and let you know how I’m doing.”
Only the sound of the television blasted into the icy room. My parents never blinked an eye or moved their heads.
“Okay…I guess I’m gonna go now.”
Silence.
“Well, ma, now you can finally have your own art room.”
I saw my mother bite her lip. My dad spoke to the television. “We’ll keep your room empty for when you come back.”
My smile disappeared. No hugs. No kisses. No encouraging words. I felt like I had been cheated. I opened the kitchen door and looked back once more. They hadn’t followed me. From the living room came the soft sound of sniffles like soldiers who had finally lost the battle. I brushed back a tear. “I won’t be back,” I said to myself and I gently closed the door.
(499 words - by Joy Saethre)
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