Obligation Wearing a Familiar Face
The fight itself lasted maybe ten minutes. The resentment behind it had been building for three years. Three years earlier, my father Harold hurt his back badly enough that he was out of steady work for months.
He had been a floor manager at a distribution center, the kind of job that requires a body to cooperate, and when it stopped cooperating he found himself at home in the middle of the day watching the utility company’s automated payment reminders pile up on the counter. My mother Sandra had already had her hours cut at the dental office where she worked as a receptionist, the kind of hours cut that happens when a small practice loses a dentist and isn’t sure yet whether to replace him. Their mortgage was behind, the utility notices were arriving in bright colors, and every conversation in the house had the quality of a whisper right before a storm.
I had just come out of a long relationship that had quietly dismantled itself over the course of a bad year, and I needed somewhere to land for a while. So when Mom asked if I could move back home temporarily and help until they got caught up, I said yes without a great deal of deliberation. I told myself it would be a few months.
I told myself the breakup had been expensive and the timing was actually reasonable for everyone. I told myself a lot of things that were partially true, which is how partial truths do their best work. I did not move home expecting to become the backup plan for everyone else’s life.
At first it felt manageable. I paid one late mortgage installment so they would not lose the house. Then I covered the electric.
Then the water. Dad said he would repay me once he was back on his feet. Mom kept saying just this month.
I believed both of them because I wanted to. They were my parents. Families helped each other.
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