Lily Tison

Evan Coleman

Humanities

November 22, 2020

(Growing Up Fast)

Being the only soul awake in the house, I decided to take advantage of the calm by

baking something and made a beeline to the kitchen. On my phone I quickly sifted through

recipes, and came across some great sounding pumpkin muffins. I preheated the oven to 350 and

began to assemble ingredients. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves danced in the air. 15 minutes later

I pulled them out and exchanged good-mornings and “how-did-you-sleeps” with my mom. To

kill time, I turned to the mountain of dishes sitting in the sink and got to work.

My mom brewed her coffee on the bottom left burner like always and we unanimously

agreed the muffins had cooled sufficiently. Then fetched our plates. Mine was a cracked

brown-and-white plate and hers a white one with gold details. We picked out our muffins and

headed to the couch, her black coffee and my green tea leaving a trail of steam behind us. She

slid me a coaster and I set my breakfast down. I plopped down on our hickory brown couch,

speckled in fuzz and a few crumbs as usual.

Although we’re virtually inseparable now, we weren’t always. In 5th grade, I can recall

my parents beckoning me into the dining room. I sunk down between my mom on the left and

my dad on the right. It’d been a while since we all three sat around the yellow table, holding only

the fruit bowl. The sky was a boring shade of grey and a few cars were making their way down
the street. The world was silent except for the weeping of my mother and my father’s attempt at

explaining what was going on. The energy in our house had long been uncomfortable, so I had

sensed it coming but it hadn’t registered for me what divorce entails. Two toothbrushes, two

beds, yes, but also witnessing my parents in extremely vulnerable states and quickly realizing

that they are people, not just my parents.

Over the years my loyalty shifted from side to side. Dad bought me whatever I wanted,

but he also had a terrible temper. I shared more in common with my mom, but she often shot

down my plans with friends. After lugging clothes, toiletries, school work, and devices from

house to house each week I became an expert packer, and more importantly, got used to my new

lifestyle. Still, sometimes I found myself staying a few weeks at dad’s, and then a month at

mom’s.

Eventually I stopped going to my dad’s house altogether. The boundaries I tried to set

were trampled by his hateful political rants, intimate descriptions of his personal life, and his

latest money troubles on our way to school in the mornings. Strapped in with my backpack at my

feet I sat listening uncomfortably, absorbing his stress and anxiety. His eyes would twinkle and

his arms would flail manically as he burst in my room to ramble about a million dollar

documentary he’d sell to netflix, or a getaway to palm springs our future held. He never faced

me though, he faced his reflection in my mirror. After the excitement I dreadingly anticipated his

dark mood. Yelling, impossible to confront, and stubborn; a different person would appear.

I recall the last time I was over: fishing around my room putting my things in a bag and

slinging it over my shoulder, double checking I hadn’t forgotten anything important, because I

had no intention of coming back. The time before I had fled running, scared for myself and my
mom, my backpack and a tote hanging off me like an anchor. I kept telling him through my tears

I was just scared. That just fueled his fire even more. His booming voice echoed through the

entire house as he paced up and down the hallway and spewed on and on about how my mom

sabotaged our relationship. I sat on my bed clutching my phone, frantically checking if my mom

had texted me she was here to pick me up every few seconds. Suddenly he disappeared and I

heard the sound of his Van pulling out of the driveway. Instantly my mind was consumed in the

possibilities of where he had gone and if my mom was in danger. My phone lit up, and I jumped

from my bed.

I pretend everything I left in my room that day was destroyed in a fire, that way I don’t

think of it anymore. The dozens of magazine pages I had spent hours plastering my walls with,

the string of fairy lights that hang daintily above my bed, my favorite windbreaker, and the

thriving monstrosa plants my dear friend had given me: they’re all gone for good. Everytime I

drive around in his neighborhood I feel myself camouflage into my seat as if we’ll cross paths at

any moment. When it just so happened that I ​did​ see him, I tugged on my boyfriend’s shirt and

darted down the liquor store aisle so quickly he had no idea I was there. At the opposite end of

the store my heart pounded and I stood frozen till the coast was clear. Anxious that he'd be

behind any corner, I cautiously tiptoed from aisle to aisle until we left.

I see now what my mom put up with and made do with for me, and it makes me feel

guilty. At the time I didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation at home. That cold uncomfortable

feeling of witnessing your parents living together without love had become normal for me as a

child. Now, when I see a family out and about enjoying each other’s company, or a father and

daughter doing something cool on Tiktok, I’m envious.

 Then I think of my mom. My mom who loves me more than anything else in the world.

Who has expensive taste yet wears my old clothes and the socks I was about to retire. Whose

sweet voice chirps like a toddler when she's happy. The only decent driver on the road and the

only person I know is honest 100% of the time. As a teenager, she had a 22 inch waist and hung

out with the weirdos. A content hermit and avid podcast listener.

Ever since quarantine began in the spring, we’ve spent our mornings together. Wake up,

bake something, convene on the couch and chat. Sometimes we listen to a weekly astrology

forecast, sometimes we share pictures of cute animals or interesting desserts with each other.

What we’re cooking that day is usually a topic of conversation, as well as if she has to go

grocery shopping, and what I’m doing that day. Permission to go out is sought after on the couch

as well. From our perch we gossip about celebrities, family members, and neighbors all the

same. We coo over our terrier mix, baby angle, Bandit.

“Could you make this?” she flashes me her phone, a picture of an extravagant looking

cake staring back at me. “Maybe.” I chuckle.