They both had rather grim expressions on their faces. My mother also had a big glass of wine.
“Hello dear,” she said. She took a big sip of wine. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said cautiously. “How are you guys?”
“Chloe,” my father said. “Come in here. Have a seat.”
I sat down, knowing that I wasn’t going to like whatever it was they were about to say.
“So ... I can tell this is going to be more than just a friendly little chat.” I swallowed, trying to quell the anxiety that had started to build in my chest. There was nothing for me to feel anxious about; I hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew this, yet there was part of me that felt as though they were about to blame me for something. I’d disliked this type of anxiety so much that it was my main motivation as a kid to always do what was expected of me. But now, it seemed, it didn’t matter what I did; my parents would find something to take issue with.
“Chloe,” my father started, his tone dripping with irritation, “this has all gone on long enough. Frankly, I’m getting sick of having this conversation with you. You’re a young woman who could have a bright future ahead of her if she stays on track. And as your parents, it’s our duty and responsibility to make sure that happens. We would not be very good parents if we simply stepped to the side and let you conduct yourself however you wanted. We’re not saying that you need to mindlessly follow everything we say. In fact, I feel as though we’ve given you quite a bit of freedom.”
“How so?” I asked.
My father looked genuinely surprised. “How so? Did we or did we not agree to let you go to that art school you so badly wanted to attend? Who’s financing that? Who’s paying for your living expenses?”
“I appreciate all of that—you guys know that. But I kind of feel like you’re only okay with what I do so long as it’s what you want.”
“That’s absolutely untrue.” My father pursed his lips and shook his head. “If you were doing exactly what we wanted you to do, art school wouldn’t have been on the table in the first place. I have an appreciation for the arts, Chloe. Your mother does too. But it’s very hard to make a living as an artist, and because we want to see you do well in life, I feel as though we need to steer you in a different direction. And this path you’re headed down now, seeing this guy, that’s just got to stop. And it’s got to stop now, because I am tired of having this conversation with you.”
My mother was quiet, staring intently into her wine glass. I took a deep breath and tried not to let my own irritation show on my face. “I know, Dad. And you’re not the only one who is getting sick of having this conversation.”
“Yet it doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere, does it? Because I find myself saying the same thing, again and again. So I’m going to nip this in the bud, right here, right now. You are not to see Graham again.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You heard me, Chloe. But just so there is no confusion, I’ll repeat myself: you are no longer allowed to see Graham. End of story.”
I looked over at my mother, who hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t she told me the night I came home and found her sitting outside that she didn’t think Graham was that bad? That he seemed nice? That we would all have to try again another time to get together? But now, she was just looking down at the fabric on the couch cushion, as though she were considering whether or not she wanted to reupholster it.
“You can’t tell me that,” I said. “You can’t tell me that I can or cannot hang out with someone. I’m not a child.”
“You may not be a child, but you’re living under my roof. I’m financing your education, and your apartment. Even though I don’t agree that a person can really have a future in the arts—not a profitable future, anyway. But it’s something that you always felt strongly about, and I wanted to support that. Because I want what’s best for you. And I knew how badly you wanted to go to art school. You may not realize it, but these things cost money.”
“Of course I realize that!” I snapped. “I’m not an idiot, even though you seem to think I am.”
“Then you can understand why I don’t want you hanging out with someone like Graham. He’s not the right person for you, and it just seems unproductive to be spending your time with someone that you are ultimately not going to end up with.”
I could only stare at him in disbelief. He was talking with such certainty that it almost made me doubt myself. But how could he know? How could he know that Graham wasn’t right for me? That we wouldn’t end up together?
“You really have no idea what you’re talking about,” I finally managed to say. And that was the thing with my dad: he was always used to being in charge, in control of his situation, knowing what the outcome was going to be. And I’d always just got along with it, because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. “You can’t stand that, can you? You can’t stand the fact that I am doing something you don’t necessarily agree with. Even though I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not doing anything that’s hurting anyone.”
“This is hurting me,” my father said. “It pains me a great deal to see you headed down the wrong path. And as your parent, it’s my duty and obligation to try to set you straight.”
“You can tell yourself whatever you want, but you’re not right.” I shook my head. “I know for a fact that you are not right, at least not in this situation. Graham is a good person.” I looked at my mother. “Mom, you’ve been bugging me this whole summer about how I haven’t really dated anyone and how worried you are about that, and now I finally find someone that I actually like—and that wasn’t offered a job if he’d go out with me—and you guys are unwilling to accept that! I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t know each other that well,” my mother finally said. “He may not be who you think he is. And what’s going to happen when the summer is over? He’s going to stay here; you’re going to go back to school. Long distance relationships hardly ever work out. You’re taking a gamble on someone that you barely even know.”
I stood up. “Yeah, well, I’m willing to take that chance. You guys wouldn’t be happy with anyone unless you picked him out yourselves. But guess what? It’s not your life. And you can’t tell me what to do.”
“Then you are not allowed to live in this house,” my father said calmly.
My mother gasped. “John! We’re not throwing her out.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We’re not. We’re allowing her to make a choice. Just because she’s over 18 doesn’t mean she doesn’t have to follow the rules of the house, Claire. We are by no means, though, throwing her out.”
They both looked at me, my father expectantly, my mother pleadingly. Neither really thought I would leave, though. There was a part of me that didn’t think I would do it, either. But what choice were they giving me? I was 21, not 12.