Thanksgiving Reunion

I had considered not showing up; it probably wouldn’t have hurt my parents any more than the previous four years where I didn’t and afterall, my career was just reaching the greatest moment it ever has. But considering the circumstances, it would’ve been of poor taste for me to have blown them off.

After all, it’s not everyday that your mother gets a cancer diagnosis and the least I could do is to pretend to be one united family for her, even if it may be a touch deceptive. She always liked to pretend she had what many of her friends seemed to have: a family without any troubles that would work through everything together.

In a way, she got what she wanted. I never spoke up when I had a problem, even if it really bothered me. After all, it would never get resolved anyway, just swept under the rug in order to “keep the peace”. It was in large part why I skipped these gatherings.

Sitting here now, I’m filled with a touch of regret. She’s far weaker nowadays, only really having the strength to choke down a few bowls of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. I don’t feel too much regret though, I’ve gone through enough of these to know that attending them would’ve caused me a great deal of anguish.

My mother always had a weird handle on conflict, first of which being how politics were allowed, as long as they were kept “cordial”. Of course meaning that the actual rate of the unpleasant discussions wasn’t tamed down, only changed into passive-aggressive remarks and words spoken through gritted teeth.

Thankfully, she’s kept the gathering rather small this year, only me, her, and my father, most likely to accommodate me. She's always known I was never a fan of crowds and though she tried to change that multiple times as I was growing up; she seems to have accepted it now.

I can also sense that my father might’ve had something to do with it. He was never a fan of his in-laws, or indeed any of his brothers or sisters either. He just never seemed to care to say anything. Aversion to extended family was likely one of the only things I ever really seemed to agree with him on.

As he chews slowly on a turkey leg, I can’t help but notice out of my periphery that he doesn’t take his gaze off me. Me and him have had a great deal of conflict over our lives and I know for a fact that the only reason he never laid a hand on me was because mom forbade any overt conflict. It was one of the only matters I was grateful for her approach.

Quiet, reserved, but vehement in his beliefs about how a child should be raised, he seemed to almost alternate between being an almost absentee stranger that just happened to live under the same roof, to being a micro-managing helicopter parent.

We’ve had many conversations throughout my life where he disagreed with my choices; he was far more outspoken when I was a kid, which of course led to me intentionally disobeying him on an almost daily basis then. But my mother gradually made her impact and he’s since changed into demonstrating disapproval through quiet stares of disapproval and barely veiled smiles of distaste.

We practically despised each other when we were younger. I used to call him his first name, “Robert”, instead of dad. I wish I could say it was some principled stance to tell him that he wasn’t acting like a dad, but in reality. I just wanted to hurt him.

It got better as we both got older. As his hair began turning white and eventually falling off and as I gained and lost my first zits. We reached an uneasy détente, mostly brokered by my mother though.

Expectantly, the entire atmosphere is tense. Not a single word has been exchanged throughout the entire dinner so far. For the most part, I anticipated this of course, but to a far lesser degree, a lukewarm instead of the boiling at the moment.

The silence is finally broken by an unlikely source.

“How’s work?” my father says, his voice typically monotone.

“Fine.” is all I can find the will to reply to the man.

“I bought one of your pieces. It’s good. It’s hanging up in our bedroom.” He says slowly, seemingly hesitating with every word.

It’s foreign, but appreciated. As much as my mind is telling me that mom put him up to this, I can’t help but believe it’s genuine. He rarely gives compliments, even fake ones and this is clearly outside of his comfort zone. I give him a sincere smile.

“May I?” I respond, gesturing upstairs as a request to go to their room.

He nods and as I go, he doesn’t follow me and it’s not long until I’m brought to an art piece I drew years ago hanging on the wall displaying a family of silhouettes staring off into a horizon. My father’s never been much for symbolism and subtlety still seems to be a new animal to him.

Ironically enough, I drew with the mind that it was meant to demonstrate how I should leave my family behind to focus on brighter things, but I won’t bring that part up.

I can’t help myself but chuckle a bit. Afterall, it’s somewhat comedic really. Not only because of the irony, but the fact that I’m a digital artist and they went through the hassle of printing one of my pieces and hanging it on the wall.

It’s a surprise really. Dad never showed much interest in my work and if it was only a few decades ago he probably would’ve had a heart attack at using this much printer ink for this.

Strangely enough, the picture frame is somewhat crooked, if it was anyone else but my father I wouldn't note it but, I’ve known him my entire life as a man who would obsess over small details like these. It was only through his work that the house is as organized and well-kept as it is.

I stare at it for a moment, before deciding to not bother to try to fix it. I simply take a deep breath, enjoy the moment and prepare to make my way downstairs.

Perhaps it’s nostalgia that kicks in, but as I walk out of my parents room. I find myself wandering over to my old room. Expectantly nothing’s changed in it. In fact, it actually seems cleaner than I’ve ever seen it before.

I relax on the soft linen of my old bed for a moment, before slowly making my way downstairs.

I take a seat once more at the dinner table, feeling a new sense of ease that I’ve never really felt in the house before.

“Thanks for that.” I say with a smile, resulting in a rare and almost never seen smile from my dad in return. It’s short lived however, as he soon lowers his eyes, leans forward and speaks with a certain timidness that’s completely out of character for him.

“There’s something we need to talk about.” He says, almost slurring his usually clear and mostly crisp speech.

“Yes I’m aware, mom has cancer.” I say, leaning back into my chair.

“Not only that I… I was di- diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few months ago.”

“And- in this tough time, I was hoping you’d consider moving back in with us to help take of mom as I begin becoming less capable of doing so” He asks, with a sense of hopelessness that is plainly obvious he hates.

He says I’d be moving in for mom, but he knows as well that it’d also be for him. It’s the way he’s always been. Unwilling to admit when he’s asking other people to help him.

At that moment, I’m reminded of the hundreds of memories where it irked me and resulted in screaming matches between me and him.

I rush outside and onto the porch, leaving my parents in a shocked state, but at that moment I can’t find it in me to care.

I clutch the aged wood of a supporting pillar, causing a splinter to stick straight into my right palm, but I push past the pain.

This is a big decision to make. I’d be putting my life on hold, just as it seems to be taking off; I’d been working to this point for practically every year in my adult life.

But my parents are dying; this might genuinely be the last opportunity for me to ever interact with them and plus- I didn’t honestly expect I’d just have to interact with them once after I found out mom got cancer did I?

I knew what I was getting into when I came here.

Tears begin to fill my eyes, I instinctively swat them away, but they keep coming.

I notice my father standing beside me, still, almost paralyzed; he doesn’t know what to say and neither do I.

He’s always judged me for crying, for being too soft, but at that moment, I don’t see his trademark stare, I see the building up of tears of his own.

Whatever decision I make now. I’ll have to live with it the rest of my life.

I pull in my father for a hug, the first one if I remember correctly- that I’ll ever have with him my entire life; he doesn’t fight it. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life and my only hope is he’ll remember it too.

“I love you dad.” I say, barely intelligible.

I’ve said it plenty of times before of course, but it was almost always forced. It takes him a few long moments, and he practically chokes them out, but he says:

“I love you too.”