4.

I walk into the laundry room today to hug her goodbye, and she venomously whispers I know what you’re doing, like I’m an apologetic teenager sneaking away to a keg party, making premonitory amends to a disapproving parent.

But I’m 43 years-old, at least for one more day. My girlfriend and I are going camping for my birthday, and my dad has offered to watch my aging, ailing dog for the night. She mutters Goddamn dog as I open the front door to leave, followed by You have your own house. Why are you even here?

And I avert my gaze, drop my head, and slink away.

Except this is my house, where I’ve slept the past 4 summer and autumn’s worth of star-drenched nights, with my Labrador at the foot of the bed and horse in the pasture out front. My parents have only been here for a little over a month, an I’m already shifted toward the invisible compliance I learned as a kid.

I suppose a son is always his mother’s child. My actual age has evaporated in her awareness, but apparently judgmental criticism has not.

I’ll start packing tomorrow.