Chapter 27 #2
I wave my hands around the room. Left, right, up, down.
At everything and at nothing. There’s no item in particular I’m pointing at, but there must be something here to symbolize how desperately I’ve worked to please them throughout the years.
It’s the singular constant I’ve had for every day of my life.
“Everything I do is for you guys. To make you happy and to be a daughter worth what you’ve given up.”
“Liliana.” Her demeanor shifts. I can hear it in her voice, the way it shifts from the fun, sing-song tone to dry and flat. The charging cord is forgotten back in the mess of her carry-on, arms motioning for me to take a seat next to her on the couch. “You’re confusing me.”
“You’re confusing me.” My mom places her hand on my shoulder, reminding me that she’s there but giving me the space to express what I have to. I didn’t know this was something I had to say aloud. “I don’t understand why you think I’d be making decisions solely on what I want to do in life.”
My mom scoffs. “Maybe because that’s how you’re supposed to live life?”
“That’s not how you and dad live yours.”
“Of course it is.” The bag of souvenirs isn’t holding my dad’s attention anymore. He walks around the coffee table and sits on it, directly in front of us.
He gives me a look similar to my mom’s. Lips pursed, jaw squared. Like I’m the one speaking in riddles, not them.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth. It causes me to blunt.
“You’ve never made a choice for your own happiness in my entire life.”
“Watch the tone.” My mom warns me.
I take a breath. I’m not annoyed, despite the lies my parents are so carelessly telling me. Just confused as to why they’re feigning ignorance.
Dad’s eyes point in a challenge. “Name one thing your mother and I have done against our own happiness.”
“Stay in Boston.”
It’s both the quietest and loudest thing I’ve said all day.
My parents’ stern expressions fall. My dad’s glazes over in defeat, and my mom’s in understanding. My blood runs cold.
I’m right.
I’ve always known my life was lived selflessly.
I was raised that way, by two people who breathe that principle into every part of their own lives.
In the beats of silence, I sit with the astonished looks on their faces when I accuse them of not living life for themselves.
I consider that maybe my parents don’t realize they’ve raised me to be just like them. Giving. Sacrificing.
“You decided not to move back to O’ahu because I decided to go to grad school.”
The first time they said the retirement plans were off, they insisted it wasn’t because of me. Today, they stay quiet. Just glance at each other like they’ve been caught committing a crime.
They’re backed into a metaphorical corner, because for once I get to say I’m right, and they’re wrong. I can’t stop myself from running with it—from giving them example after example of what they’ve done for me throughout my life.
“Dad won an award from the university once. Same day as my prom. You rejected the award to take pictures of me for one night.” I have a million and one of these examples stashed away.
They’re all I think about when I consider my future.
“And mom, every year for Christmas, you let me choose the colors for the tree.”
“It’s a tree, Liliana.”
“It’s your favorite holiday.” My mom tries to keep her unimpressed expression, but for a second it slips. “Grandma told me it was a tradition that you chose the colors. Every year up until I was old enough to choose.”
She sighs and twirls the strings of her sweatpants. My dad starts biting nails. If there was polish on them, it’d be chipped.
I swallow before continuing.
“And you moved to the mainland because you thought it would be best for me. Even though you both wanted to stay in Hawai’i.
” The weight of my parents’ sacrifices pushes harder on my shoulders, burying me.
Tears are starting to form behind my eyes.
“I know you gave up everything that made you happy for me. I’m trying to become a daughter that’s worth it. ”
I bite deep into my lip and try to calm myself. I don’t want my parents to feel guilty for making me emotional. If anything, saying these things to them reminds me how long I’ve taken to become a daughter they can be proud of. It’s the only dream I’ve ever chased and it’s still so far away.
My mom’s hand on my shoulder tightens. My dad’s face is somber when he hops off the coffee table and takes the empty seat next to me.
“Liliana.” He tries to get my attention, but the guilt stops me from looking at him. “Whatever decisions we’ve made, whether that be about awards or decorations or moving,” my dad mumbles into my hair, “Weren’t so you would live your life for us.”
Mom cradles my face, wiping at the tears I did a poor job of hiding. “All we’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
“All I’ve ever wanted was to be the perfect daughter, to make you guys happy. I just want to be worth it.”
They stare each other down again. Exchanging something that I’ll never understand, then simultaneously wrapping me in a hug.
“Sweetie,” my mom mumbles, “Seeing everything you’ve done, and how amazing of a woman you’ve become, has made any and every sacrifice worth it. Ten times over.”
Everything overwhelms me. My parents’ unconditional love for me. A lifetime of pressure and expectations relieved, for the first time, because of one sentence. And the small seed of doubt that maybe they’re not considering everything they’ve sacrificed—even the biggest things.
I start speaking, trying to remind them of how deep their selflessness runs, but I’m choking up on my words. My dad asks me to repeat myself. I wring my hands again and breathe out the truth that breaks my heart.
“You left Hawai’i for me. You gave up the thing you love the most in the world for me.”
My dad squeezes me tighter but shakes his head. “There’s one thing we love more than Hawai’i. And that’s you.”
Another loud sob crawls out of my throat.
I trust my parents with everything. I trust them not to lie to me, ever, even if it would spare my feelings. We don’t have that kind of relationship. So when they claim that not only am I worth all they’ve given up, I know it’s true.
And when they tell me they love me more than the land that raised them, it sends a flurry of emotions running over me. I expected to chase the finish line of their love my whole life, maybe getting close to succeeding, but never fully enough to mean that much to them.
My parents tighten their arms around me while I cry and sit with the thought that they love me this much. An amount of love I didn’t think was possible when their souls have been rooted in the islands.
Mom is sniffling now, wiping away her own tears.
“And don’t you ever blame yourself for us having to leave Hawai’i. Living costs that don’t cater to locals are why we thought moving here was for the best. Being priced out of paradise isn’t a burden you, or me, or your dad, or any Kanaka should be expected to bear.”
In the countless number of emotions I’m feeling, a new one emerges.
Weightlessness. A freeing sensation from my chest, where there’s always been constant pressure to do better and be better.
My passions and interests go back to reading and writing.
But my expectations in life, and the pressure I put on myself, go back to these specific words.
Don’t blame yourself.
My mom, with what I think is her intuition, continues the monologue I so desperately needed to hear.
“How, when, and why we got into whatever situation we did doesn’t fall back to you.
Don’t put that pressure on yourself. We’ve never wanted you to pay us back for something.
” She runs her hand through my hair lovingly, smiling at me.
“So if you haven’t been living your life for your own happiness, you better start. ”
Three laughs mix, but mine cracks. There are so many things I would’ve done differently in life. Things I would’ve pursued. Passions I would’ve chased.
My degree would’ve been different. I would’ve started writing sooner.
My bachelor’s would’ve been in Fine Arts, and maybe I would’ve met Grant in a different class.
Maybe the conversations we had, where he nudged me towards living life for myself and letting loose occasionally, would’ve happened sooner.
Maybe the stress of this short story would’ve been easier to bear.
Drying my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, I ask, “Are you proud of me?”
“Of course!”
The harmonized exclamation echoes. Both their stares are pointed, looking at me as if I’ve asked the most ridiculous question in the world.
I start chipping at the polish on my fingers. If they thought that question was crazy, they’re going to hate the next one.
“Would you still be proud of me if I failed a class this semester?”
Before they can answer, I shrink into myself. I’ve never failed anything before. Too driven by the need to be their pride and joy, and too scared of what university professors would think of their daughter slipping in academics.
But at least, after learning they don’t want me straining myself with the thought of being perfect, they may allow me some grace.
They share a glance, nod at one another in a silent agreement, then turn to me.
“We’ll be proud of you no matter what, as long as you’re living life for yourself.”
My dad pats my head lovingly, smiling. Mom smiles too, but a bit straighter.
“We would like to know why you’re failing a class, though.”
Being an overachiever means I’ve never had to explain I’m bad at something. Nervously, I avoid eye contact and speak in a low voice.
“I might not be all that good at writing. Which, honestly, is my fault, because why would I pursue a writing degree if I didn’t study it in undergrad?” The heat of their stares are burning into my skin, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. “It was a bad idea on my part. I’m sorry.”