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a very dramatic child—
it’s nice knowing that I’m not the only one in my family who can’t stand Guy Moran.
“Guy’s had some hard times,” Dad says as he bites into a s’more, “but Jim mentioned that he’s been doing really well lately. Got a new job, even!”
I take my meds and go to therapy weekly, and I have a cute dog to make up for the lack of boyfriends lately. This last part is by choice,
Around my family, I’m the youngest. Anxious and inefficient and, somehow, still not an adult even though I’m turning thirty in September.
When I’m around my family, it’s like I can’t escape the worst parts of myself.
I’m not a bad daughter. I visit our parents several times a year and call every other week. Sure, I’ve bailed on the bigger holidays and gatherings, but I still show up when it counts. The problem is that Eliana has never failed to rub it in that she’s the golden child.
“I’m getting divorced.” She says this without any emotion, a statement of fact. “We separated nine months ago.
There’s this huge . . . custody battle.
hate—I absolutely hate—that I’m the tiniest bit sorry for my sister.
Maeve moved to Los Angeles fifteen years ago.
she’s as disorganized as she is stubborn.
She’s a glorified influencer, and as someone who hates social media, I can make absolutely no sense of her life.
I frown at Buffy. This will be our first Fourth together, and I brought some gabapentin and a ThunderShirt, but I have absolutely no idea if they’ll be enough.
It’s frustrating, how easily they get along. On paper, my two sisters couldn’t be more different, but that’s never been a problem.
The worst kind of small talk is with family, the people you should be able to connect with.
While I caffeinate, Mom makes breakfast, rattling off today’s long list of activities, which gives me a headache.
Salli
She’s the organized calm to Mom’s disorganized storm.
Salli would let me sleep over at her house—
during the power outages, and she would pick me up from school when my parents were busy with work or that one time they were detained at the local jail after a protest. Salli never had kids of her own,
never shamed me for not wanting kids. Even my super-liberal, pro-choice mom guilted me when I told her.
I’ve never wanted kids.
it wasn’t until high school that I began to realize that not having children was an option.
Dogs and houseplants are much more my speed.
No one in their right mind should want my anxiety- and allergy-ridden DNA, not to mention my poor eyesight.
“Why didn’t you tell me Eliana was getting divorced?”
“Because I didn’t want you to gloat.”
“Why do you think I’d gloat?” “You aren’t Chad’s biggest fan,” Mom points out. “Who is?”
I’ve never had good luck with relationships.
the wasp guts smear across the Sac Bee headline, something sensational about a teenager killed in a hit-and-run last night.
Eliana has to be right, constantly. It’s exhausting.
Barely twelve hours around my family, and I’m regressing into something I don’t like.
Tasha’s job offer looms over me like a complex cloud.
I’ve tried, desperately, to be an adult. Self-sufficient and successful, despite the anxiety that’s weighed me down since its first flares in my early childhood.
And I feel myself retreating. Back into my role of the youngest, the quietest, the one who matters the tiniest bit less than everyone else.
the art of pretending to listen to someone while you’re really
that’s all I do as the Fourth of July slowly inches along.
When addressed, I make appropriate small talk, then zone out and stare at a blob of guacamole on Aunt Lindy’s inappropriately low-cut shirt. I forgo kayaking because if there’s anything I hate more than exercise, it’s exercising with my family on a body of water.
I wonder how I’m related to these people sometimes. The only person who seems to be having a worse time than me is Eliana, which admittedly makes me feel better.
it’s fireworks time. Also known as the bane of existence for those with sensory disorders, dogs of all shapes and sizes, and veterans.
the bag I packed with the ThunderShirt and gabapentin was accidentally left behind at camp.
Buffy’s whining, as if sensing the impending doom.
Buffy commences the full-on meltdown I feared was coming.
I try to calm Buffy, but she’s freaking out. Hey. Maybe this is my out. “I’m gonna go,” I yell toward my family.
do what I should’ve done thirty minutes ago: leave.
I wasn’t a happy kid. I didn’t have the stellar grades like Eliana. I wasn’t charismatic like Maeve. My anxiety went untreated, and my family acted like all I needed was to exercise or meditate, and I’d be all better. Fixed. As if I was broken. My eighth-grade English teacher had a parent-teacher meeting with Mom and Dad before graduation, where she gently told them I should really see a therapist.
Poor woman didn’t know what she tipped into motion when she shared her concerns with my parents, though.
“Hello?” a voice calls out, and I sit up. Hold my breath. “Anyone here?” The voice is familiar, but in an echoey way.
In the center of my campsite stands Guy Moran.
