Why I Won’t Talk to My Parents About My Childhood Trauma
I prioritize my relationship with them over some misplaced need to clear the air
Using the keypad, I open the garage door and let myself into my parents’ place.
It still smells new in here. They bought this townhome, a new construction just over the border in New Hampshire, last summer. Their express reason for moving was to be closer to my family, though we haven’t spent much time together since then. My mother’s unexpected sickness, the sudden outbreak of COVID-19, and the arrival of our newborn offer good cover, but I’m not sure that’s the whole story.
I’m not confronted with them today, because they’ve taken a trip back to the Midwestern town where I was raised; I’m just here to water the plants while they’re gone.
It’s a raw day for me. I’m tired and emotional, anxious and sad. The huge iced coffee I nursed on the drive up sits, sweating and impotent, in my car’s cupholder. Rather than waking me up, it’s somehow only accentuated my unpleasant emotions.
I walk into the sunroom where my parents’ plants are housed and my eyes are drawn around the room. Photos line the wall, the desk, the table, the filing cabinet. Photos of my parents and of various concerts they’ve attended, yes, but mostly…
