29. Chapter 29 #2
“When Millie went into remission, I hoped things would go back to normal. But they didn’t.
The expectation that I’d take care of her, prioritize her, never went away.
And then my mom started pushing for more.
” I’d shaken my head, remembering. “She’d make these comments about how perfect Millie and I would be together, how we were ‘literally born for each other.’ When I’d try to push back, she’d remind me of everything Millie had been through, how fragile she still was. ”
“So when she pressured you to ask Millie out…” Peter had prompted.
“I felt trapped. I didn’t have romantic feelings for Millie.
She was like a little sister to me. But the pressure was constant.
From my mom, from Millie’s parents, even from Millie herself by that point.
So I did it. I asked her to homecoming. We dated for a year, and I was miserable the whole time. ”
“That’s why you left the state for college.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t breathe in Mount Pella anymore.
Everything felt predetermined. Like my whole life had been decided for me before I was even born.
” I’d looked up at Peter then, needing him to understand.
“I thought I’d escaped it. For years, I lived my own life.
I met Caitlin, I fell in love with her. I had a job I loved.
I thought I was building a life for myself. ”
“So why did you fall back into the same patterns when you returned to Iowa?” Peter’s question had been gentle but direct.
I’d stared at a picture of Caitlin and Rachel sitting together in front of a Christmas tree with the same older woman from the graduation picture, searching for an answer.
“I don’t know. Maybe… maybe part of me still believed I owed them something.
That I was selfish for wanting my own life.
Or maybe I was just a coward, afraid of disappointing everyone.
” I’d sighed, the truth of it settling heavily in my chest. “Probably both.”
Peter had nodded, his eyes kind but unwavering. “I think you were asked to shoulder burdens you never should have been asked to carry. No one should be responsible for another person’s happiness that way, especially not a child.”
The understanding in his voice had nearly undone me.
“But,” he’d continued after a moment, “you need to do some serious introspection, Adam. Figure out why, having escaped that trap once, you fell right back into it as soon as you were in your mother’s orbit again. If you can’t ensure it will never happen again, you need to let Caitlin go.”
I’d nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“For what it’s worth,” Peter had added, his voice softer now, “I believe you’re trying. And if you ever need to talk about any of this, my door’s open.”
Now, as I pry up more of the damaged flooring, I feel a surge of gratitude for Peter’s wisdom and his unexpected kindness.
The conversation had been painful but necessary, like lancing a wound to let the poison out.
And he’s right; I need to understand why I let myself be manipulated if I’m ever going to ensure it doesn’t happen again.
It wasn’t immediate, the backsliding. At first, I tried to maintain boundaries.
I told my mother to stop it when she started making comments about Caitlin not being “our kind of people.” I defended Caitlin when Millie made passive-aggressive remarks about her.
I worked to make sure she was included when we hung out with my old friends.
I protected our time together, refusing to be at Millie’s beck and call.
But the pressure was constant, unrelenting.
A drip of water that eventually wore away my resolve.
And then Eric died. Millie hadn’t been the only one devastated at his death.
My own father had always been affectionate but distant.
He’d buried himself in the family business, only present for family events when my mother insisted.
It had been Eric who had taken me fishing and camping when I was a child.
Who taught me to use his tools and let me work on his projects with him, inspiring my love of working with my hands.
Eric had coached my sports teams. He’d taught me to ride a bike.
And Millie had been part of all those memories. We’d been bound together in our grief and suddenly, she needed me again. Just like before. And my mother had capitalized on that, reminding me that Eric would have wanted me to take care of Millie.
I grab my thermos and take a long drink, leaning against the counter.
The truth is uncomfortable, but I need to face it: I was afraid.
Afraid of my mother’s disappointment, of Millie’s tears, of the disapproval of everyone who’d known me since childhood.
I’d spent my entire life being told that my worth was tied to how well I took care of Millie, how perfectly I fulfilled my mother’s vision for my life.
Breaking free of that meant facing the possibility that maybe they wouldn’t love me anymore if I wasn’t who they wanted me to be.
I return to work, attacking the floor with new determination.
No more. I am not responsible for Millie’s happiness.
I never was. That burden was unfairly placed on me by adults who should have known better, who should have let me be a child instead of Millie’s keeper.
I’m not responsible for her well-being, for her emotional state, for her future.
If she has problems, they are not mine to fix.
The realization feels like a weight lifting, like taking a full breath after years of constriction. I’m not responsible for Millie. I never was.
I swing the crowbar again, feeling a surge of something like freedom with each impact.
I think about all the times I was made to feel selfish for wanting my own life, for having interests and friendships separate from Millie.
I think about my mother’s manipulative tears, her guilt-inducing reminders of Millie’s health struggles.
I think about how she used those to control me, to shape me into the person she wanted me to be rather than letting me become who I actually am.
“No more,” I say aloud to the empty kitchen, my voice startling in the stillness. “I reject it. All of it.”
My mother can be disappointed with me all she wants.
She can cry and rage and tell me I’ve failed as a son, as a man.
I don’t care. I am not going to live my life according to Paula Kelley’s plan ever again.
I am not going to sacrifice my happiness, my integrity, my love for someone else’s comfort or convenience.
I set down the crowbar and stand in the middle of the demolished kitchen, breathing hard from exertion and emotion.
I reject all of them: my mother, Millie, the entire life that the people of my childhood wanted me to live.
I reject the guilt they used to control me, the obligation they manufactured, the responsibility they unfairly placed on my shoulders.
I am Adam. Not Paula’s son or Millie’s protector or Mount Pella’s golden boy. Just Adam. And that’s enough.
I work until the kitchen floor is cleared of all the damaged materials, until there’s nothing left but what can be saved and the space where new things will go. It feels right. It feels like progress. It feels like hope.