Rewind Reverie

Think About Your Future

Family dinners.

They're meant to bring loved ones together.

On the other hand, they can tear them apart.   

It's my belief that you can tell how dysfunction a family is by how they treat each other at dinner.  The more passive-aggressive the comments are, the more these so-called relatives hate each other.  Don't get me started on pettiness.

I dress my best for the occasion.  I pull out my finest threads - a black, chiffon dress long-sleeved maxi dress with a bowtie neck, a fitted tuxedo jacket, and my beloved black witch boots.  I keep my hair down, but style it in waves, making sure that my blunt bangs are extra sharp.  Add a little smoke to my eyes and nude pink to my lips and I have fulfilled the "feminine" requirement.  

Sadie takes one good look at me and sniffs the air.  "You look like you're going to a funeral."

"I'm going to have dinner with my parents," I tell her.  "Practically the same thing."

"Can't argue with that. You're mom is going to have a fit when she sees, though."

"I know."  I throw her an impish wink.  "That's why I'm doing it."

She sends me off ("I don't care if they are your parents, don't let them bully you!") and I make my way to the bus loop at the college.  It only takes one bus to get to my parent's house but it's the bus with a reduced schedule.  It's also a bit of a troll, sometimes leaving the bus loop earlier than it should.  Luckily, I get there just as it's about to pull off.  Can't be late, after all.

My parents live in Avebury, an affluent neighborhood that's twenty minutes away.  Every house screams "we are VERY rich, peasant" and each family have lived here for years, some generations.  Living here gives you serious clout.  If you mention in passing conversation that you live here, you automatically give yourself away as someone with stuffed pockets who commands attention and respect.

 That's probably why my mom demanded that my dad move here three years ago.  She's always been a social climber, mom.  Always keeping up with those Jones.

I was the only voice of dissent, albeit a muted one. I didn't want my father to do anything that would push them back into poverty again.  When I was seventeen, a serious of bad investments and a shady partner lead to the sudden end of my father's luxury kitchen remodelling business. My parents lost just about everything - our house, car, you name it. It took my dad six years to turn himself around. Watching him struggle to make ends meet working various menial jobs hurt like hell.  

My dad is one of the sweetest men I know.  He's quiet but he's loving and I've never questioned his love for me.  I didn't want him to struggle again.

My mom didn't appreciate that one. "You have no faith in your father, do you? He's worked so hard to pick himself up and here you are putting him down? What kind of daughter does that?" 

I...have an interesting relationship with my mother.

The nausea kicks it into high gear as that familiar Georgian style home comes into view.  My parents have one of the smallest homes in the area.  By small, I mean a two floor home with a study, windows everywhere, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms.  For two people, it seems like overkill.  What do they need all that space for?  

My dad answers the door and it's like Monday all over again - seeing my dad after all these years nearly breaks me.  He passed away from prostate cancer fifteen years after I married Wesley.  There are no words to describe how difficult it was to help my mom with the funeral preparations without the support of my husband.  Grief didn't stop my mom from telling me what a terrible wife I was and how I was a disservice to my husband.  But the kicker was Wesley swooping on the day of the burial, playing the part of the loving husband for the crowds.