For the first time in 30 years, I’m living on my own. My daughter Abby packed up the umbilical cord and moved to an inner-city womb with a view. With Scott’s passing, this makes me the sole occupant of our empty nest. It’s a mindfuck even when you see it coming. Thank you baby cheeses for Martini’s – both cocktail and canine.
I’ve known Abby her whole life, and I’ve grown rather fond of her. We’ve been tight since she paddled her way outta my canal. As an only child, she inherited the gift of gab at conception. A communications major, she got the degree, I got an honorary doctorate. Navigating grief, healing, and a pandemic for the past three years has forever sealed our bond.
Once Abby finished university, I expected a roommate on an even playing field. She preferred to stay on the teet. Picking up after her became a bone of contention, and gave new meaning to soiling the nest. Parenting an adult child is challenging when money and curfew no longer serve as leverage.
It’s sad Scott’s not here to share another milestone with us. I’m often plagued with guilt over the gaps that only two parents seem to fill. Abby was ready to go, but also anxious to leave. She’s not scared to be alone, she was scared to leave me alone. However, Martini’s animal magnetism will be her strong pull home.
So I find myself full of conflicting emotions since she signed her lease and collected the keys. I’m super excited for her next chapter, but feel like I’m losing a best friend. I’m secretly stoked her building only has coin laundry. As long as I’m topped up on Tide, I’ll see her every two weeks!
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