Nothing on this earth inspires the same pure, unadulterated despair as having to spend any prolonged length of time with my parents in the same location.
It sounds dramatic, but honestly, Chuck and Sarah Roberts are the poster couple for “sometimes divorce is a blessing.” There’s just something about them being within six feet of each other that turns them both into monsters.
With that in mind, I should probably count myself lucky that Dad hasn’t showed up to the goodbye breakfast he promised he’d to be at before I head to Honey Acres sleepaway camp to work for the summer with Emilia.
The most annoying part isn’t being consistently let down by a man who is supposed to be one of the stable pillars in my life, it’s the effect his absent parent bullshit has on Mom, who, if anything, I could cope with being a little more absent.
“Why don’t you try him again?” She watches me over her orange juice with a sad pout. “Have you tried his assistant? Or Elsa? Your sister can always seem to reach him.”
“He’s not going to answer; it’s fine.” It is fine, because you can’t be disappointed by someone you have zero faith in. “Our plans clearly weren’t his important ones. What were you saying?”
Reaching for my glass, I gulp down my water and free my throat from the metaphorical brick lodged in it. The one that gets slightly bigger every single time I say the words “it’s” and “fine” in the same sentence.
“I was about to ask if you thought any more about moving home when you get back?” Give me strength. “Don’t look at me like that, Aurora. I literally made you.”
You’d think after twenty years I’d be used to the incessant probing and the not very discreet attempts to remind me that she’s the reason I exist and yet—here we are. “I, uh, Mom, you know we’ve signed the lease for next year already. Dad already paid the full year upfront . . .” What’s a polite way to say, “hell will freeze over before I voluntarily live with you again?” “You can’t expect me to commute from Malibu every day when I have a perfectly nice home right next to college . . . I’d spend half my day sitting in traffic.”
“There are children in other cultures who live with their parents forever,” she says in a hushed tone. “Your sister is in London. You take three days to return my calls. Don’t act like I’m the unreasonable one for wanting to see my daughters regularly. It’s not even far.”
God forbid Sarah Roberts ever be accused of being the unreasonable one.
“I think my parents’ worst nightmare would be me moving home,” Emilia interjects, forcing a chuckle to lighten the increasing tension.
Emilia Bennett is the perfect roommate, best friend and occasional human guilt shield. Two years studying public relations and six years playing emotional babysitter to my mom and her turbulent mood has turned her into my own personal crisis manager.
“I’m sure they would love it if you moved home, Emilia,” Mom sighs dramatically. “I’m sure their house feels huge and lonely without you.”
The only reason Mom’s house feels huge and lonely is because she sold my childhood home and used the divorce settlement to buy a huge “fuck you” house on the beach.
Her eyes land on me and it’s a look that I recognize: expectancy.
She expects me to want to be home as much as she wants me to be home and she can’t understand why I’d rather work all summer than spend it with her. It was never a problem when I was the one sent to camp, the problem started when she realized I was much happier there than with her.
We travelled around a lot when I was a kid, moving from country to country depending on where Fenrir, the Formula One team my dad owns, was racing that month. Following the team around the world was always Dad’s top priority, never stability for his daughters and wife.
Elsa and I have always joked that Fenrir is the only thing he’s ever helped create that he actually loves.
I love my sister, but even with the same complex web of mommy and daddy issues, our six-year age difference was too big to overcome as two kids looking for connection. I was acting out worse than ever and that’s why my parents started sending me to camp every year when I was seven.
It was everything I didn’t know I needed. I had routine, I was able to spend time with kids my age and I could begin to build the foundations of who I was without constantly being surrounded by adults and a moody older sister.
Honey Acres was the first place that ever felt like home. Even when my parents eventually split up and Mom moved us back to America full-time and enrolled me in school, I still insisted on going to Honey Acres every summer. I loved how happy the staff were to see me every year and it’s my first real memory of feeling wanted.