Turning Tables ---Going Under Construction---

One More Time

 For years upon years of my life, I had turned into myself into a rather small and helpless version of myself in front of my parents because it was easier. No, I had never conformed to their standards or done things their way, but I also never stood up the way I needed to because even the smallest slight was 'over dramatic'. Then here I was once again before the threshold of my never-ending nightmare. 

Before my hand even hit the door to knock it was thrown open. Not, however, by my ever-present mother. Instead, I stood face to face with my still faced father. He said nothing, simply moved aside to let me in. It took far too much willpower to make me move forward. 

Soft classical music played in the background as I moved into the dining room. There my mother stood, setting the table. 

"Oh, sweetheart, there you are." She fluffed the flowers one last time and moved over to give me a quick hug. "Glad you made it."

I took my coat off. "You didn't seem to give me much room to say no," I remind her. 

She ignores my slight and leads me to the bar where she pours herself a glass of wine. I can tell by the small stain on her green dress that this is far from the first one she's had. "What can I get you to drink dear."

I look through the array, a few new bottles given as Christmas and New Years gift. New years was I party I wasn't even invited to. Staying in my home sobbing was most likely more fun though. "Wine is perfect, mother."

My father grunts as he moves past me to the liquor cabinet, pulling whiskey off the wall. As upset as I had been over the last month or so I let out a quick laugh towards his obvious attitude. He didn't deign to turn, but my mother noticed. "What is so funny." The question was more out of curiosity then wondering why I was overtly offended. I made sure they knew my problem though, 

"I just love that no matter how many times you invite me, I still come, despite knowing that nothing will be different." My voice strained against the sarcasm and struggled to hold back more laughing. "Every time, I stand here and watch you, father, walk by me without a word. Then you, mother, pretend that the world is sunshine and rainbows until your daughter gets too dramatic." They each gave me their own unique stares. 

There my mother stands, shocked and appalled as any good Christian housewife would be. 

Then for once, I get my father to look at me with something other than indifference. 

"Has my life gone so wrong, my decisions been so bad, that I can't get one monochrome of appreciation or... far be it from me, respect. There are other people my age who don't have savings accounts or cars or apartments, their parents are still proud. Here I am though, the vision of adult living, waiting for you to realize that I can make my own choices in a way that doesn't put me in harm's way."

"Jade," my mother starts. I stop her immediately. 

"This isn't drama," I tell her. "This is years of you telling me how to live my life. Maybe every aspect of it isn't perfect, but I have figured it out along the way, all by myself."

I had obviously never been one to hide her tears, though I always wish I had been. Maybe everything I said would have been taken more seriously if it wasn't followed by tears."

Finally, my dad spoke. "Nothing but 'hello' was said to you as you entered our home, yet you stand here and yell at your mother and me for that."

His glass of whiskey sits untouched on the counter. "You know that isn't what this is about."

Without a word, I storm into his study just off the living room. I was never allowed in there as a kid unless a special invitation was extended. This time I barged through the doors and looked around until I saw what I was looking for. I could hear my father's heavy footsteps behind me, Then, on the ground in its untampered with box, I saw my Christmas gift. 

"Ah, There it is," I said in a wistful voice like I cherished the item I picked up. With the box held tight to my chest, I turned to him. "At least it made it into the study, right? That is high praise. It's hidden where no one will know you don't give a shit about your own daughter."

My mother pokes her head in. "Jade, language."

My laugh fills the room. "That is all we will take away from this conversation, my language. Because, how dare I forsake such an important family with a foul mouth."

"Get out of my house!" My father's yell is almost powerful enough to bring the house to its foundation. 

"My pleasure."

The bookends still heavy in my hand I push past my parents back into the living room. All I want to do is rip the pictures of me as a child off the walls and throw them through the windows. They were only up to show that I existed anyhow, after age 11 the pictures stopped getting framed. Maybe they were somewhere in a box under the stairs, gathering dust. My hair color and piercings didn't quite fit the motif though. 

Once I was at the door, ready to storm out and stop coming back, my mother called me one last time. 

I looked over at her, waiting once more, for the magic word that would make it all better. I had never quite figured out what they would be, but I always thought they had to exist, right?

"If you leave, don't come back."

This time the tears didn't fall, I was done. "I promise," I tell her. There was no sorrow or regret in her eyes, and I knew the feeling wasn't really hers. She was the one who tried, though unsuccessful. My father had done years of work on her though, telling her I had to act a certain way to be a part of the family. 

I think her words were more of a sweet wish instead of a harsh command. If I came back all I would get was pain, over and over again. 

Without an 'I love you' I left the house.