And then I went about my life.
Now, I need to be honest with you here.
Blocking him felt both liberating and terrifying.
Because when you cut off family, even family that’s treated you like an afterthought, there’s this voice in your head that says you’re the problem. That you’re being dramatic. That you should just swallow it and show up with a smile and be grateful for your six approved weekends and your dishwasher instructions.
That voice is loud, and it sounds a lot like your mother.
But Waverly kept me steady.
She didn’t push me to do anything. She just kept saying, “You get to decide what you’re willing to accept.”
And I decided that I wasn’t willing to accept being a footnote in my own family.
For the next month or so, things were quiet.
My parents didn’t call, which told me everything I needed to know.
They weren’t checking on me. They weren’t wondering why I hadn’t responded to Sutton’s list.
They were probably relieved I hadn’t caused a fuss.
That’s the thing about being the easy kid.
People get used to your silence and mistake it for agreement.
Then Thanksgiving came around.
Now, every year Thanksgiving at my parents’ house was a production.
Loretta cooked for two days straight. She made the turkey, the stuffing, the green bean casserole, for kinds of pie, and this cranberry sauce recipe she got from her grandmother that honestly tasted like sweetened battery acid.
But nobody had the nerve to say anything because it was tradition.
Sutton and Jolene always showed up around noon, and I usually arrived around 1 with whatever I was asked to bring, which was always rolls.
Every year, just rolls.
Sutton brought a $40 bottle of wine and got praised like he’d hand-harvested the grapes.
I brought rolls and got asked why they weren’t warm.
This year, I didn’t go.
I didn’t call. I didn’t text.
I just didn’t show up.
Waverly and I cooked a small meal at my apartment.
She made this incredible roasted chicken with rosemary, and I made garlic mashed potatoes that were, if I’m being humble, some of the best potatoes in the tri-state area.
We ate on the couch, watched a movie, and I didn’t think about my family once.
Well, maybe once, but it was brief.
The call came the next morning.
My mother.
Not a text. An actual phone call, which meant she was either worried or furious.
And with Loretta, there’s about a 3% margin between those two emotions.
“Oliver, where were you yesterday? We waited. Your father carved the turkey late because we thought you were stuck in traffic.”
I told her I wasn’t coming.
She asked why.
I said, “Because I’m apparently not family enough to have a key to the lake house, but I’m family enough to be expected at Thanksgiving. That math doesn’t work for me, Mom.”
There was a long pause.
Then she said, “This is about the lake house, Oliver. That was months ago. You need to let that go.”
Let that go.
She said it the way you’d tell someone to stop being upset about a parking ticket.
Like the house where I’d spent every meaningful summer of my childhood being handed exclusively to my brother with a side of visiting restrictions was something I should have processed in an afternoon and moved on from.
I told her I wasn’t angry.
I told her I was done.
And there’s a difference.
Angry people yell and slam doors and come back.
Done people just leave.
She didn’t understand the distinction.
She started in with the guilt.
How much work she’d put into the meal. How my father was disappointed. How Sutton had even asked about me, which I doubted because Sutton’s idea of asking about me was probably something like, “Is Oliver coming?” Because Jolene wants to use the good china.
I told her I loved her, but I needed space.
She said I was being childish.
I said, “Maybe, but at least I was being honest.”