CHAPTER SEVEN
Anya
After leaving Lana, I head straight home, my mind racing through everything the detective said. Despite having plenty of evidence, it feels like the police aren’t going to help. If no one else will step in, I have to take matters into my own hands.
*buzz buzz*
I glance at my phone and my heart sinks when I see who’s calling. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself before answering.
“Yes?”
“We need to talk.”
“Mom, I think we’ve talked enough,” I reply, frustration creeping into my voice.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” she responds firmly.
“Fine, when can you be here?”
“You misunderstand,” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “We want you to come here… tonight.”
The air leaves my lungs, and a knot tightens in my stomach. I haven’t set foot in that house since the day I left, and the thought of going back fills me with dread. My parents have always been dismissive and condescending, believing I can’t handle anything on my own. They’ve made me feel inadequate and dependent, always quick to undermine my efforts and decisions. Now, facing them again, those old feelings of inadequacy bubble to the surface. But I remind myself that I need to be strong.
After dinner, I drive to my parents’ house, each mile feeling heavier than the last. Memories of my childhood—both good and bad—swirl around me. The excitement of family holidays, the comfort of a familiar home, and the stinging criticism and belittling comments from my parents all mix together, creating a tumultuous swirl of emotion.
When I finally pull up to the house, I feel a pang of anxiety and a surge of defiance. This is my childhood home, the place where I was constantly made to feel like I couldn’t do anything right. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me, and walk up to the front door with shaky resolve.
Before I can knock, the door swings open. My mom stands there, holding it wide as if to usher me into a space that has always felt stifling. I step inside, each movement feeling heavy with the weight of my past. My dad is sitting at the dining room table, his expression serious and unwelcoming. The familiar feeling of being judged and undermined settles over me like a shroud, but I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. If I can confront this, I can face the challenges that lie ahead.
I move to sit across from my dad, the familiar weight of the old kitchen chairs pressing into me. My mom takes the seat beside him, and the three of us fall into a tense silence. The room feels small and stifling, and I’m acutely aware of every little sound—the ticking of the clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator—amplifying the silence between us.
The frustration and apprehension swirl inside me like a storm. Every judgmental glance from my parents, every critical comment that’s been hurled my way over the years, seems to replay in my mind. Their disapproval feels like a heavy cloak, draped over my shoulders, suffocating me. I can hardly bear the anticipation of what’s coming next, and my patience is wearing thin. I came here to address the looming shadows in my life, not to endure another round of their condescension.
“I don’t have time for this,” I finally say, my voice firm and edged with impatience. “Can we get this over with? I have things I need to do.”
“Watch your tone, young lady,” my dad snaps, his voice carrying the same authoritative edge it always did. “We are still your parents, and we raised you better than this.”
I roll my eyes, the familiar frustration bubbling up inside me. I remember how his tone used to make me shrink, how I’d retreat in the face of his disapproval. But today, I refuse to be that scared little girl again. I’ve grown, and I’ve learned to stand my ground.
“So, you keep telling me,” I reply curtly, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning within me. I’m done letting their expectations dictate my worth.
“Who are you?!” my mom shouts, her voice echoing with the same frustration that used to dominate my childhood. “You used to be so obedient, so eager to please. Now you’re just—”
“Look, if you’re just going to shout at me, I’m going to leave,” I say, my voice firm as I stand up, ready to walk out.
“SIT. DOWN!” my dad growls, his voice low and menacing, every word strained through clenched teeth.
The old, familiar fear briefly stirs within me, but I fight it and sit down again, meeting his stern gaze with a blend of defiance and trepidation.
“What are you doing with that boy ?!” my dad demands, his tone harsh and accusatory. His posture is stiff, his eyes locked on me with disapproval, as though Jacob is the source of all our issues.
“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms, trying to shield myself from their scrutiny.
“He’s changed you, and not for the better,” my mom says sharply, her voice laden with concern that feels more like criticism. “You used to be so focused, so driven. Now you’re always rude, disrespectful, and you don’t even seem to care about what we think anymore.”
I stare at her, trying to absorb her words.
She continues, “You used to be so cooperative, always eager to follow our advice. Now, ever since you left, you question everything we say!”
Her voice is tinged with a mix of frustration and sadness. My “changes” represent a departure from the daughter she wanted me to be—a daughter who was easily managed and molded by their expectations. But to me, these changes are a sign of progress, a testament to my journey toward self-discovery and strength.
Her notion of “change” is really about me finally stepping out of the shadows of their control. It’s about me asserting my own identity, making choices that align with who I’ve wanted to become rather than who they want me to be. And while that might be difficult for them to accept, it’s something I am not willing to compromise on.
I scoff, “No Mom , I was this way when I left but you didn’t want to accept that I don’t want to be your little puppet anymore.”
“EXCUSE ME?” she seethes.
“You just need someone else to blame besides yourself!” I say.
“Okay that’s enough!” My dad interjects. “We need to know what you are planning on doing?”
“About what?”
“Are you planning on still staying with your Nana? Are you planning on continuing to see that boy? We need to know!”
“This is so typical!”
“Anya! – “
“No! You call him a boy but he’s only a year older than me! And in case you forgot, that’s 22! You both still act as if I’m some little girl you can control! And, to answer your questions, yes I still plan on staying with Nana and yes! I still plan on seeing Jacob, his name is Jacob! Not boy!
“We don’t think that’s a good idea, Anya” my mom seethes.
“Oh, really and why not?”
“Because despite what you may believe, we do care about you and want to make sure you’re okay” my dad says.
“I am okay for one and two, you both never really cared if I was okay, only what other people viewed us as! ‘Make sure you don’t do this, don’t want the church members talking’ or ‘Don’t talk about Paul or what he put you through because god forbid the church finds out I’m not your perfect daughter anymore!’ Stop trying to control me! I am not yours to control!”
“Anya we – “
Fed up with this conversation, I stand up and then place my hands on the table, “You know what, contrary to what you two may believe, I have more pressing matters to deal with than making sure you’re proud of me or getting your all-important approval” I say then turn and walk out.
I planned to drive back to my Nana’s but decided to take a detour and go to the boardwalk instead. I need to think . I park and walk for a bit before finding a bench and sit down facing the ocean.
Normal parents are supposed to be there for you! Normal parents are supposed to care. But my parents aren’t normal. I’ll never be good enough for them, I’ve realized that now. I’ve tried so many times to show them that I am trying, but it’s never enough. I have this sick feeling they’ll always have something to criticize about me.
As I sit here looking out at the ocean, my thoughts start to wander. What if I never spoke to them again? Would they care? I sigh, probably not , I answer myself. But my childhood heart wants to believe that they’ll change. Tears run down my face, knowing that my heart is broken. I want to tell them about my goals and dreams, but I know they’ll just shoot them down.
They always compare me to my brother and sister. But the things they’ve done and said over the years, I would’ve never been able to get away with. My siblings could make mistakes and act out without facing the same consequences or criticism that I did. The double standard was clear from the start—while they seemed to navigate their way through life with less restriction, I was held to an impossibly high standard.
This dynamic shaped who I am now. I was constantly under pressure to be the perfect daughter, to make fewer mistakes, and to meet expectations that felt unrealistic compared to the freedom my siblings had. Their behavior, often overlooked or excused, only reinforced the feeling that no matter what I did, it would never be enough to earn the same leniency they received. I learned to be cautious, to avoid stepping out of line, and to constantly seek approval, even though it felt like an impossible task.
I close my eyes and inhale the salty air, letting the warmth of the sun wash over my face. At this moment, everything else fades away. I listen to the people enjoying the last days of summer, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic sound of the waves. The beach, with its sensory details—the taste of the air, the feel of the sand, the sight of the waves—provides a rare peace. Here, my problems seem smaller, more manageable. I sit absorbed in this tranquility for what feels like hours, savoring the escape it provides.
But reality awaits, and as I stand up to leave, I know I must face it. I understand what needs to be done, but I only hope I have the strength to confront it.