I try to visit my parents as often as I can. Most times I can’t. And when I do, it takes real mental prep. I walk out depressed, shaken, sometimes it takes hours to come back to myself. The energy in that house has always been… a lot.
On one visit, I made a decision. I wasn’t going to be judgy. Wasn’t going to demand. I was just going to take them in. My beautifully imperfect creators, as they are.
They were arguing. In their mother tongue, that just means they were talking. They try to pull me in. Not today. Not anymore.
I smile. Inhale. I get to see them. That’s enough.
Then something made me ask: How long have you two been together? Not married, together. How long have you been a couple?
My mom thought about it. Since I was about 19, she said.
I did the easy math. She’s 80 now. That’s sixty years. Sixty years of this mood, this tone, this particular flavor of resentment toward each other. Every single day.
Nothing I say. Nothing I do. No amount of begging, reasoning, or hoping is going to change what’s been sixty years in the making. This is their love language. The only vocabulary they’ve ever known with each other. Who am I to try to change them?
“I love you. Carry on.”
That was the first time I drove home and didn’t feel it.
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