My name’s Carl. I’m 34, and I used to think the hardest part of being a grown man was figuring out how to hang shelves without putting a hole through a water pipe.
Spoiler: I did that once, and my wife still brings it up at dinner parties.
But no, the actual hardest part of being a grown man turned out to be standing in my own kitchen, in the house I pay for, listening to my father call me selfish because I wouldn’t give my sister our bed.
Our literal bed.
The one my wife and I sleep in every single night.
The one with the memory foam topper that took me 3 weeks to pick out because apparently there are 900 types of memory foam, and they all claim to be the best one.
That bed.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.
I grew up in a small town about 40 minutes outside of Richmond, Virginia.
Nice enough place. The kind of town where everybody knows your business before you do, and the lady at the post office will tell your mom if she sees you buying something she doesn’t approve of.
My parents, Rick and Diane, are what I call comfortably traditional.
Dad worked at a manufacturing plant for 30 years. Mom was a dental hygienist until she retired a couple years back.
Good people, mostly. The kind who go to church on Sundays, keep their lawn mowed to a military standard, and believe that family comes before everything else.
And I mean everything.
I have one sibling, my younger sister Paige.
Paige is 29, and she has always been what my mom lovingly refers to as “sensitive.”
What that actually means is that Paige has never been told no in her entire life without someone rushing in to soften the blow.
When we were kids and I wanted a second helping of dessert, I was told to watch my portions.
When Paige wanted thirds, Mom would say, “Oh, let her enjoy it. She had a hard day at school.”
A hard day at school.
She was in the fourth grade.
Her biggest problem was that someone used the red crayon before she could.
Now, look, I’m not one of those guys who sits around keeping score from childhood. I’m really not.
I moved on a long time ago.
I went to college, studied business management, worked my way up at a logistics company, and eventually landed a regional director position that I’m genuinely proud of.
Along the way, I met my wife, Jenna, who is hands down the best thing that has ever happened to me.
We’ve been married for 6 years now.
She’s an emergency room nurse. She works insane hours. She deals with things on a daily basis that would break most people.
And she somehow still comes home with enough energy to make fun of me for the way I fold laundry.
She’s incredible.
Jenna and I bought our house 3 years ago.
Nothing crazy, just a solid four-bedroom colonial in a nice suburb about 2 hours from where I grew up.
We worked hard for it.
We saved for years, made sacrifices, ate way too many rice and beans dinners, and finally closed on the place.
The day we got the keys, Jenna cried in the driveway, and I pretended I wasn’t about to cry, too.
It’s our home.
We put everything into it.
Jenna and my parents have always had a polite relationship.
Not warm exactly, but cordial.
My mom has this habit of making these little comments that sound like compliments if you’re not paying attention, but are actually criticisms wrapped in tissue paper.
Things like, “Oh, Jenna, you’re so brave for wearing that color.”
Or, “It must be nice to have a job where you don’t have to worry about your appearance.”
Jenna handles it like a champ because she’s a better person than me.
If someone talked to me like that, I’d probably set something on fire.
Metaphorically.
Mostly metaphorically.
Now, here’s where the family dynamics come in.
Paige has had a bit of a rougher road than me, at least on paper.
She married a guy named Todd when she was 23.
Todd seemed fine at first, kind of quiet, worked in IT, liked craft beer a little too much, but who doesn’t?
The marriage lasted about 3 years before it fell apart.
I won’t get into all the details because honestly, I don’t know all of them.
But from what I gathered, it was a lot of fighting, a lot of resentment, and eventually Todd moved out and Paige moved back in with our parents.
That was 2 years ago, and she’s still there.
And here’s the thing: I feel for Paige. I do.
Divorce is brutal.