Family Reservations

by Liza Palmer

That’s the thing about breaking points—not even the person who’s broken sees them coming.

One of the single most heartbreaking moments in the pantheon of human experiences is when a person who’s lived a lifetime in an environment that demanded they stay guarded finally takes off their armor only to feel the sting of a knife plunge into their heart by the very person they risked it all for.

There’s a particular sensation that happens when the realization dawns that the party you so desperately want to leave . . . also wanted you to leave.

There’s a singular type of energy that comes from feeling that you’re good at something. That’s what they don’t tell you about getting older—it’s not the invisibility or the aches and pains that kill you. Instead, it’s that incrementally, and over a span of just a few years, you are perceived to be less and less useful to the world. And the belief that you’re slipping begins to calcify into the fear that, if you’re no longer good at something, then maybe you’re not good for anything.

Sweetness, to those who’ve never known it, can feel like a glinting scalpel. The subject is positive that once the blade cuts them open, it will only expose their guile and inherent unworthiness.

There’s something particularly irrefutable about finding actual evidence of how truly clueless you once were. The blind hope of it just breaks your heart.