I Object!

I OBJECT

I thought about the summer I killed my parents. Not literally, but figuratively—emotionally. Jeez! I’m not a monster!

It was the summer between high school and the rest of my life. We’d been on pins and needles all spring, waiting for the university acceptance letters. If it was a big package, then it was an acceptance package. If it was lettersized, then it was a rejection letter. So, we waited by the mailbox every day, fingers crossed.

And, yahoo, I got acceptance packages from each of the three schools I’d chosen—well, I hadn’t actually chosen them so much as my parents had chosen them. And there were academic scholarships to each. My parents were over the moon. They bragged to all their friends, “Our daughter got into all the universities she applied to! She’s going to be a lawyer.”

Of course I was—they were lawyers, so obviously I would be a lawyer, too. They didn’t even ask me, actually. Instead it was decreed—by tacit agreement, or by the sheer force of their will. Mom and Dad picked the schools that I applied to—of course they were the ones that looked best when I started applying to law school. They had even signed me up for pre-law courses over the summer—even though law school was three years away! It was kinda like Law for Dummies. That was going to take up six of the ten weeks that I had off for summer. That meant no summer job for Nelly, so no earning power for Nelly.

“Where am I going to get spending money?” I’d asked when they told me about the classes.

My mother had flipped her hand through the air as if she was shooing a fly away. “You’ll manage,” she said. “You can do chores.” Great. A summer of school during the day and cutting the lawn and cleaning my room after classes. Not exactly what I had planned for my summer. I actually had a kitchen job lined up at a local restaurant, but apparently, I wouldn’t be able to do it. Sigh.

My parents had co-oped my education, my summer, my future, and my fun. On the really rare occasions when we “talked” about my future, Mom and Dad never actually asked me what I thought. Instead whatever they said was a a fait accompli—it was already decided. They talked about the education fund that they had been growing since I was born. Ivy league schools weren’t cheap, they’d say. I’d just nod. They’d talk about me living on campus—they’d already made the applications to the residence department of each of the schools, and been accepted. In fact, my parents were waffling over whether or not they should spring for the extra money for a private dorm room, or a shared suite. Shared meant that I had a friend. Private meant that I wouldn’t be distracted by my friend and lead astray. They came down on private dorm room. They didn’t ask me what I wanted.

Now, all I had to do was choose which school I wanted to attend—no, no, no—what school they wanted me to attend.

“Nelly, any one of these schools will work. They are all excellent choices,” said my mom, the acceptance packages fanned out around her at the dining room table..

My dad smiled. “If you choose our alma mater, you’d be a legacy student. There are benefits to being a legacy.” He actually wiggled his eyebrows and nodded knowingly, like being a legacy student made me special.

Yes, my parents had met at university—at that particular university. Yes, it was love at first sight. And yes, they also attended the same law school. And yes, they got married between their undergrad degrees and law school. And yes, apparently I was conceived when my mom was studying for the bar. I don’t know why they thought that information was something I should know, so yes—eww.

There was talk about sororities, and campus clubs—all these things that they had been part of a million years ago when they were at university and dinosaurs roamed the Earth.

They were so excited. I was their opportunity to relive their glory days. Mom was making all these plans. She’d wanted us to go to all the campus tours so that I could chose which school I preferred. Then we’d all drive down in the fall once I decided, and they'd help me move in to my residence. We’d explore campus and the surrounding town. It would be so much fun! For them.

My parents had created a post-secondary education juggernaut, and I was just being dragged along in the wake.

I really wished that I had a sibling—to share their expectations with. But, apparently one child was enough to fill my parents’ need for a protégé.

It had been the same all through school. In elementary school school, I had after-school classes, and activities and clubs and sports. I was one over-scheduled child. I did a lot of different things, but no one thing really well.

But it was so much worse in high school. Mom and Dad were on top of everything I did—debate club, Model UN, school newspaper, mentoring. They actually had an agreement with the front office that if I wasn’t in class, both my parents were to receive a phone call from the school. No automated message was good enough for my parents and their grand plan. No, my parents wanted to talk to a real person and find a way to crush any bad behaviour in the bud! I was their future.

They monitored my friends and activities. The activities outside of class had slowed down a bit, by high school, but I did have a tutor, or two, or three. And they were all over my marks (hence the need for tutors). They reviewed my assignments, my projects, my tests. And, and, they chose all my classes. When I rebelled in grade eleven, they allowed me to chose one class. I got one class to find my bliss, the other seven were chosen to ensure I would get into a good university in the program of their choice. And even though I had room in my schedule for a spare, I had to take a full timetable in grade twelve. According to my parents more was better.

So, yes, my parents were heavily vested in me, my schooling, and my future.

Almost by osmosis my parents’ alma mater was chosen as the school that I would attend. I don’t even remember agreeing to it. It wasn’t until I received the confirmation letter that I realized that I was going to go to their university.

Now I had to move fast. It was almost too late.

So, when the confirmation letter arrived, I had to do something, and quickly.

I walked into their office. They shared an impressive partners’ desk. Each was sitting on their own side, university documents scattered across the desks. They both looked up as I walked in.

I took a big breath. “So, the letter says that I have to send a cheque for my first year of courses, housing, and food plan. That’s a lot of money,” I said to my mother and father.

My mom smiled. “Your courses are covered by your scholarship. But, yes it is a lot of money, It’s an investment in your future.”

I nodded. Heart hammering in my chest, I said, “I don’t think that being a lawyer is the future that I want.”

My parents’ heads swivelled towards me. In unison they said, “What?”

“I don’t want to be a lawyer,” I said, head held high. “I want to be a chef.” I paused looking at their stunned faces. “I want to go to culinary school.”

“No,” said my mother, standing up to face me. “You agreed to go to university then law school,” she said.

“No,” I said, “You decided that I would go to university then law school.” I looked at both of them. “I didn’t have a choice. It was all your planning.”

Dad sputtered. Mom pursed her lips so hard he mouth looked like … well, it wasn’t very attractive.

“It’s what I want,” I said.

They moved quickly through denial and anger, and right into bargaining. They were lawyers, after all. Dad told us both to sit down, and said we should discuss this like adults. Mom slowly dropped into her chair, her eyes never leaving mine. I sat in the visitor’s chair at the end of the desk. I felt that I was on trial.

My dad spoke first. “Why don’t you go to university first, then we can see about culinary school after you graduate? At least you’ll a bachelor’s degree to fall back on if the other doesn’t work out,” he said. I could see that his mouth worked hard to spit out the words culinary school, as if it were a foreign language.

“Exactly,” said Mom. “In case the cooking classes don’t work out.”

I looked at Mom. “It’s not cooking classes, Mom. It’s a two year program in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu.”

“You don’t even speak French,” she huffed. I must of looked surprised, because she backed down a bit. “You don’t speak it fluently. How can you live and go to school in France if you don’t speak French?”

“Je compress et je parle couramment français. Merci pour tous les tuteurs et les cours de perfectionnement. Ça va me rendre la vie plus facile,” I said, my accent flawless.

They looked at me blankly. I translated, "I understand and I speak fluent French. Thank you for all the tutors and the advanced courses. It’s going to make my life easier."

Dad may have smiled at that.

“But it’s cooking. We have Matilda for that,” Mom whined. My mother never whined. “Where did you learn about cooking?”

I looked at my mom. “From Matilda. She’d let me help.” I looked at her a little harder. “Grandma Keen, in the summer. We’d cook and bake together. In fact, she’s the one who got me interested in baking.” I stopped and looked at both of them. “I want to be a baker. I want to have my own shop.”

“But our plans!” said my dad, his voice edging into whiney, as well.

I shook my head. “Exactly! Your plans, Dad. Not mine.” I crossed my arms. “Neither of you ever asked what I wanted to do.”

My mom was back at anger pretty quick. “We did so!” she said, slapping her hand on the table.

“When?” I asked, honestly curious about her answer.

“When you were four, you dragged your father’s briefcase around the house saying that you wanted to be a lawyer.”

I looked at her, slightly astonished. “Mom, I was four. You were both lawyers. What else would I choose? You were my only role models.”

“You said that’s what you wanted,” said my mom, folding her arms across her chest, mirroring my posture.

“Okay, Mom, Dad, you’re both trial lawyers. Would you take the word of a four year old?”

“That’s different,” sputtered my dad.

“How?”

“Children that young are unreliable,” he said.

I said nothing, just raised my eyebrow looking at both of them.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” demanded my mother.

“I tried.”

She huffed. “When?”

“Remember that I wanted to join the cooking club in grade eight? You said that wasn’t the kind of extracurricular activity that universities want to see on applications. It was grade eight, Mom, not high school. Or, when I wanted to take Family Studies in grade nine. Instead, you signed me up for Technology, because you said it was important for me to be able to navigate the electronic world, and the different digital resources available to lawyers. Or, when I asked if I could make Christmas cookies—on my own, without Matilda. You said, absolutely not! You told me that I would be spending my Christmas break networking with your friends and their families. Or when I applied for the job at the bakery in the supermarket?” I looked at my mom. “You took the application, ripped it up, and signed me up to volunteer at the animal shelter.” I stopped and looked at both of them. “Do you remember, in November, when we were sending out my applications to universities, and I said, 'this might not be what I want to do?'” Both my parents looked blank. “You said, and I quote, ‘of course it is. It’s always been what we’ve wanted for you.’”

We sat in silence for a few minutes while that sank in.

“How will you pay for cooking school?” asked Mom, pivoting. “Paris is expensive.”

“Culinary school, Mom, culinary school. I have my education fund.”

She got that stubborn look on her face. “No, you have the money we put aside for university and law school. Not baking school.”

I have to admit, I wasn’t completely shocked. Mom was the one who used threats and withheld things—like my education fund—until you bent to her will. “It’s an education fund, Mom, not a law school fund.”

“It’s a whatever-I-say-fund,” she reiterated, eyes narrowing.

“Now, Marion,” said my dad, ever the peacemaker. He looked at me. “Back to my original point. What if you take some business courses before culinary school? You want to own your own bakery, so you’re going to have to learn how to run a business. It wouldn’t hurt,” he said, smiling his kind-old-lawyer smile.

“How about I go to culinary school, then I take a few business courses while I’m apprenticing?” I turned to my mom. “And, Grandma Keen, unless I’m mistaken, put a hefty chunk of money into my education fund. I’d like her money, plus interest, thank you. Le Cordon Bleu is expecting my fees.”

My mother—a woman feared in courtrooms throughout the region for her rapier wit—sat there with her mouth slightly open. “Excuse me?” she said, shock showing on her face. I knew she’d heard me—I’d learned how to project in debate club—she just didn’t believe what she’d heard me say.

“Grandma Keen knows. She supports me. I used her address for the application to Cordon Bleu.”

Dad shook his head. “This was a very convincing, well-thought out argument, Nelly. You’d have made a fine lawyer.”

“Thank you.”

So, much to my mother’s chagrin, and my father’s begrudging respect, I went to culinary school, and focused my education on baking and pastry. I didn’t actually open the bakery that I wanted, because I was courted by Cordon Bleu and hired to be their pastry chef. It’s my job to ensure that the bakers of the future can make a beautiful cake that won’t collapse, are able to flawlessly apply Lambeth piping, to be able to create any shape through sculpting and carving. Personally, my cakes have won gold medals in numerous competitions. I’m a big deal in the baking and pastry world. I even have my own channel on YouTube. And I was a guest judge for a number of seasons on a television cooking competitions show (you know the one).

It’s been fifteen years. My parents were distant during school, but once I started making a name for myself, they’ve come around. I actually heard my mother bragging about my awards and kudos to her friends. “We always knew she’d do well.”

Even though I’m not a lawyer.