Chapter One. Dare to Dream #2
She gives a hesitant nod, her attention on our house. It looks like it’s in its pre-HGTV makeover stage, with brown paint chipping off the panels, a huge crack in the driveway, and moss covering the roof, but it’s home to us.
Inside, Jo leaves her sandals strewn next to the door, and I place both my thrifted Carhartt boots and the sandals on our shared shoe rack.
My eyes land on the rack next to Jo’s and mine—Mom’s shoes take up one half, while the other half is empty.
I can still vividly picture Dad’s work boots, beat-up sneakers, and flip-flops being there.
We finally mustered the courage to donate most of his stuff a year ago, but Mom’s never put her shoes on his side or her clothes in his dresser drawers.
I’ve walked past these racks every day for a year, but tonight, it sends a shock of grief through me, and I have to force a deep breath into my lungs.
No matter how much time passes, or how much I’ve grown used to living with only memories of their overflowing shoe rack, I can’t grow used to the empty spaces in our house and our hearts.
I pull myself out of it as Mom comes into the entryway and wraps Jo in a hug.
After she steps back, her face lights up with a type of joy I’ve never been on the receiving end of.
“How are you? You’re taller now! I’m making a nice dinner to celebrate you coming home for summer and Natalie graduating high school. ”
She smiles at both of us, and I cheer internally. I knew this family dinner to celebrate Mom’s Golden Child being home from school (and my graduation) would put her in a good mood! We’ll have a nice evening and discuss the Center tomorr—
“We have tons of new ideas for the Center!” Jo announces, beaming.
Shit. There goes that plan.
“Mom, our new ideas are KissFist! We’ll redecorate, and I’ll make social media posts. We have plans for summer camps, game nights! It’s exciting!” She does jazz hands, trying to get Mom to match her enthusiasm, but it falls flat as Mom shoots me a withering glare.
“I wanted one nice night with my daughters, but you HAD to mention the Deaf Center, didn’t you?” Her signs are laced with frustration. “Act like an adult! We don’t have money for new ideas.”
“I didn’t mention the Center!” I gesture toward Jo. “But … I’ve saved up some money, and now we can afford small changes. It’ll be good for the Center! Good for the Deaf community!”
“The Center is fine. Conversation finished.” She flips both hands away from her body, fingers splayed, and storms into the kitchen. Jo grabs my wrist and drags me along as she follows her. Mom angrily fills a pot with hot water and snatches gluten-free pasta out of the pantry.
“She has great ideas. Let her tell you!” Jo pushes me forward and encourages me to share.
Well, I guess it’s now or never.
“Mom … updating the Center will make life easier for so many deaf kids. Most deaf centers in the whole country are old, outdated. If we make a good, modern center in Seattle, maybe it’ll inspire other centers! More deaf kids, all around the US, would have better resources.”
This strikes a chord with her. Mom didn’t grow up proud of her Deaf identity or her language.
Unlike Jo and me (until I left residential school), she attended mainstream, Hearing schools where she was ridiculed, harassed, and called “deaf and dumb” by students and teachers alike.
I’ll do anything I can to prevent other D/deaf kids from experiencing that.
I can’t understand why she wouldn’t want the same.
Mom takes off her glasses and scrubs hands over her face. “We don’t have money. No.”
“We do! I saved up. Now that I’m done with high school, I have more time and I can fundraise for more.” Before I can stop myself, I add, “Dad wanted this.”
“Don’t guilt-trip me with Dad!” she snaps.
“I’m not ‘guilt-tripping’! Mom, you’re being unreasonable! Give me one good reason why we can’t upgrade!”
“Conversation finished!” She gives one last, resolute sign, anger burning in her eyes.
“You ruined tonight. Good job.” She stalks out of the kitchen and slams her bedroom door so forcefully I feel the vibrations.
A half-filled pot of water sits abandoned by the sink, uncooked noodles spilling out of the box and onto the floor.
The sudden stillness in the room feels like it’s mocking me, amplifying every emotion I’m trying to suppress. I slump onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, the weight of her anger pressing down on me like a stone.
Jo sits beside me and squeezes my hand—a small, grounding gesture—but it’s not enough to stop the accusation replaying in my mind of a celebration tarnished by a conversation I didn’t even start.
In moments like this—when I’m exhausted from twelve-hour days or weekends with no breaks or Mom’s blown up to the point of storming off—I question whether this is the hill I’m willing to die on. Is it worth all this to keep Dad’s vision alive, even when it’d be easier to let go?
But then I remember the Center I dream about—the world I dream about.
A place where everyone is welcome, where respect isn’t a luxury but a given.
Where D/deaf kids who’ve faced language deprivation and feeling less-than can thrive.
Where parents can learn how to raise a D/deaf child with love and confidence.
Where Hearing people can unlearn the ableism deeply ingrained in our society and grow into better allies.
It’s a vision bursting with hope and possibility, and it deserves to exist.
We’ll never have enough money to make all our dreams come true, but we have enough to try.
And we have to. Because this isn’t just about me—it’s about the kids and families who will walk through those doors one day.
It’s about creating a future I can be proud of.
One Mom might not believe in yet, but I do.
If she wants me to act like an adult, I will.