Eventually the car stopped and I once again saw the house where I was born. Memories played a movie in my mind instantly.

In the car, a different one as the one I knew, I could still pretend it was some alternate reality. Even though my parents sat in the front it still felt like something not actually happening.

The house changed all that. I lived there for the first 13 years of my life. Upstairs I saw the windows of my old bedroom. No one ever slept there since I left but it still has the wallpaper I once picked out. It is still my room, even though my mother now calls it her library. The walls enclosing the space were witness to what now are my darkest memories. Luckily it would take a few more hours before I went upstairs.

Inside it was a mixture of memories and things unknown to me. I recognised a painting but once purple carpeting now had become burgundy. A large black clock with a mesmerizing pendulum still told the time, yet time had brought in completely new furniture.

The house felt small. I remembered it bigger but I was still growing when I moved out.

My mother handed me a drink as I walked into the back garden. She asked me not to speak too loud while outside, as the neighbours could hear everything I said.

Some things never change. The first time she told me to be silent here was like a dagger. In my own garden I could not talk about who I am.

Now it wasn’t my garden anymore and I obliged.

The light always prevented one to look inside from the back of the house. I had no idea what my parents were doing. Were they talking? Now that they had seen me, now that I was here, might they regret having allowed me to come over? Might they be happy I reached out and now am here? Might they recognise a chance for the first time to actually act as my parents?

I stepped back inside and found my mother preparing for dinner, my father was watching football on the television. Some things never change.

My mother asked if I wanted to eat with them and I said that would be nice. The last meals I had in this home were alone in my room. She asked if I was still a vegetarian and I told her no. She looked pleasantly surprised until I said I had now become vegan.

For my father and herself she prepared chicken. I still ache for the chicken my mother prepared the moment I told her I am gay. It’s a good thing he was dead already.

She nudged me and I walked towards my father, sitting down on the other side of the couch. I asked him if he still liked football and he said he looked forward to the world cup. Until then I had no idea the world cup was only a fortnight away.

As the chicken marinated my mother joined us and my father switched of the tv.

We no longer could avoid the unavoidable.

Only the clock prevented utter silence. It was my turn to speak.

I offered to just give them a brief overview of the past two decades, more detail about recent events and as to why I called them, why I am now here.

Many things have gone wrong in my life, but many things went right too. I told everything. They tried to listen, I saw in their eyes they put an effort not to directly interject. It worked for a few minutes.

“When I was 20 I moved to Oslo.”

“…”

“When I was 27 I moved to Berlin.”

“Why would you do that?”

“When I was 30 I moved to Manchester.”

“Is The Netherlands not good enough for you?”

“I became a sales manager at 24.”

“That’s at least a decent job.”

“It killed me from the inside.”

“But it was a good career.”

“I started to freelance as a creative professional.”

“You’re still not past that?”

My triumphs, my bold moves in life, were mine alone to celebrate. I celebrated as I once celebrated my win in an art competition: as silent as I possibly could.

I told them how I had battled illness and how it still influenced me today. I told them why a hospital was the place from where I called them. I told them that large part of my illness is just a fluke of nature. Nevertheless I heard it was simply my fault.

My parents may eat chicken but they have no clue about chicken soup.

The words, the glances, the silences, the ticking of the clock, all together they strung into a spiral getting more and more tight. I asked to pause for a moment and hopped back into the garden.

It was time for dinner. My mother respected my veganism and as we ate I realised my passion for cooking does not come from a stranger. During the meal my father said I could stay for the night but that tomorrow I had to present them a plan, let them know how I saw the future. Without, the whole ordeal seemed completely useless.

I tried to explain it wasn’t for nothing I came to the one place I considered home; even after everything which had happened this felt like the place where I had to be. I’ve avoided it for almost two decades but now I needed a person, or two, who can help me figure out where to go next as I don’t know it anymore. Now I needed someone to let me know I am loved, someone who can give me a hug. Frankly, now I needed parents, but I looked at the wrong two people.

Perhaps my instincts were off, I thought to myself. What on earth am I doing here?

As we talked more I asked them if they ever realised how afraid I was as a kid. My father stood up in an apparent need to make himself look taller. He got angry and told me I never had reason to be afraid. I tried to scoff him politely but he wouldn’t have any of it. It was my mistake I had been afraid, surely they had never done anything to make me feel that way. I asked him even if that were true, how could the fact that I had so much fear inside of me never have been a reason of concern or to get me help?

The answer is of course known, but no one will ever say it out loud.

They always knew something was odd, different. It was the first time they admitted it. Even as a toddler it was already clear both my mind and body were not ordinary. They now claim it was my mistake no one looked into it, as I did not want to be weird. Why did they never tell me I might be special instead?

Why was it no problem to drag me to the doctor for the ongoing issues with my ankles or my vaccinations, if for the other things it was apparently impossible to get me moving? Awkwardly, I don’t remember once they offered to figure out what is going on, to seek help. I do remember expressing concern about being different and not understanding what’s going on with me, only to hear my parents tell me to act like a normal kid.

What I will never understand from my parents is their continuous rejection of the parent-child dynamic. It is without doubt I was a difficult kid and that I made quite a few mistakes. I recognise that. What I reject is the idea that I could be held against the same standard as an adult while I was a child, even when I claimed I could conquer the world on my own. I reject that we were on the same level and I reject that they treated me like I was on the same level. If it were, my childhood days would not have largely been filled with fear.

I saw my mother sitting in the same room. Now still a woman in her early thirties, next to her she finds her child. The young boy has mustered all his courage to say what he is about to say.

“Mom, I don’t love dad.”

“You’re lying. Of course you love him.”

I let it all slide. The discussion was futile and would become hostile. It was not worth the energy. Not back then and not today.

I asked if they’d mind if I went to the park behind the house for a little while. It was here where I escaped as a kid and would now again. For a while I sat alongside the water. In the past my dog would have swum here but his death might be the last thing I needed to concluded this house was no longer my home.

As I returned I told my parents I’d better go sleep. It had been an intense day. They agreed and we said our goodnights. My room no longer there I slept in the room which still belongs to my sister.

The clock would eventually announce the beginning of a new day and as I fell asleep I was left to wonder. Where was I truly and where did I go?