“I’m sure,” I tell him. “Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re eating vegetables and not just surviving on takeout Chinese food.”
The truth is more complicated. After losing Sarah, the thought of being thousands of miles away from the only real family I have left feels impossible. Uncle Richard pretends it’s about convenience or cost, but I can see the relief in his eyes.
College is everything I hoped it would be. Intellectually challenging, socially fulfilling, and blissfully free from family drama. I major in business with a minor in psychology.
Partially because I’m genuinely interested in both subjects and partially because understanding money and people seems like a practical combination for navigating life.
I visit Uncle Richard every few weeks and our relationship deepens in ways I didn’t expect. He’s not trying to be my father. That ship sailed years ago, but he’s something better. He’s my mentor, my safety net, and my biggest supporter all rolled into one.
“You know,” he says during one of our Saturday morning financial lessons, which have continued even through college, “I never thought I’d be good at this whole parental thing. Sarah was always the one who was natural with kids.”
“You’re not my parent.” I tell him gently. “You’re my uncle, and you’re the best uncle anyone could ask for. It’s true.”
Uncle Richard never tried to replace my parents or make me forget them. He just consistently showed up day after day, year after year, until showing up became a foundation I could build my entire life on.
My parents, meanwhile, have become characters in a story I occasionally hear secondhand. Dad’s band had some minor success in Europe. They opened for a few bigger acts and recorded an album that sold modestly. Mom landed some small roles in independent films that premiered at festivals no one has heard of.
They’re living their dream apparently, though it’s a dream that never included space for their daughter.
They call on my birthday and Christmas. Conversations that have become increasingly strained and superficial over the years. We talk about the weather, my grades, their latest projects.
We don’t talk about why they never visit, why they missed my high school graduation, why every major milestone of my life has been celebrated without them.
“How’s college?” Mom asks during my junior year Christmas call. “Good. I’m thinking about graduate school.” “That’s wonderful. You were always so smart. You get that from me, you know.”
Do I? I want to ask. Because the intelligence I’m most proud of is the kind that Uncle Richard taught me. emotional intelligence, financial literacy, the wisdom to distinguish between what people say and what they do.
“Uncle Richard has been helping me research programs,” I tell her instead. A pause. “That’s nice. How is Richard? We should really call him more often.”
Should. Another word that means nothing coming from her. She should call him more often, just like she should have been present for my childhood. Just like she should have prioritized her daughter over her career at least occasionally.
“He’s good,” I say. “Healthy, happy, good, good.” “Well, your father sends his love. He’s in the studio today working on some new material.”
Of course, he is. Dad is always in the studio or on stage or in meetings or anywhere that isn’t here having this conversation with his daughter.
After I hang up, I sit in my dorm room feeling oddly empty. These calls used to devastate me, but now they just feel like obligations we’re all going through the motions to fulfill.
My parents check stayed in touch with daughter off their list and I check maintained relationship with parents off mine and we all pretend it means something but it doesn’t not anymore.
I graduate sumakum laud with a degree in business and immediately land a position at a consulting firm in the city. The work is challenging and well paid and I’m good at it in a way that feels both natural and earned.
My colleagues respect my analytical skills and work ethic. My boss hints at fasttrack promotion opportunities, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m building something that’s entirely my own.
Uncle Richard is incredibly proud, though he tries to hide it behind practical concerns about my apartment lease and health insurance benefits. We have dinner every Sunday, a tradition that started in college and continues now that I’m living independently. These dinners are the highlight of my week.
Not because my life is lacking, but because spending time with Uncle Richard feels like coming home.
“You know,” he says over dessert one Sunday when I’m 25. “I’ve been thinking about updating my will.” I nearly choke on my coffee. “Uncle Richard, you’re not even 60. Why are you thinking about wills?”
“Because smart people plan ahead. And because I want to make sure everything I’ve worked for goes to the right places when the time comes.”