ever talked about was leaving the nest. And even though I’ve heard the endearment a thousand times, this time it has tears filling my eyes, and no matter how hard I press my fingers against them, I can’t get the tears to stop.
“Mamma,” I choke out, my voice surprising me as it cracks. And even though it’s just one word, she knows. In that way that all mothers seem to be able to tell what their kids are feeling with just a tiny sound.
“Oh, Nell. What happened?”
I don’t have words for all the things I’m feeling. It’s all too big. Too frightening to admit out loud.
“I’m doing everything wrong,” I tell her, because that’s what it feels like. I have this one chance to get things right, and I thought I was doing it it. I thought I knew what I wanted to do and who I was, and now all I can see is a future that terrifies me. A future where I turn out to have made all the wrong decisions.
“Impossible,” she says. “You’re too smart for that.”
That only makes me cry harder. Because that’s all I’ve got. I’m smart. But what does it really matter in the long run? What if I graduate in the spring, and then I go to grad school, and then I get my doctorate, and then I start working only to discover that I’ve spent years of my life pushing blindly toward a future that doesn’t make me happy? My brain has never been the problem. But my heart is an equation I don’t know how to solve.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
She’s a good mom. My parents are good parents. And I’ve always felt guilty that my only goal is to not be like them. It’s because of them that I don’t have to work. Because even though they were sad that I wanted to leave, they wanted me to have every opportunity, to take every chance that was offered to me. They wanted more than anything for me to be happy, and I’m screwing it all up .
I suck in a breath, trying not to let on just how freaked out I am. “I just . . . I’m lonely, Mamma. And tired. And I’m worried about the future, and I don’t know. It kind of all overwhelmed me this morning.”
Understatement of the century. But I hate making her worry.
“Why are you worried about the future? Are classes not going well?”
“No, classes are great. I’m doing really, really well. Still on track to graduate early, and I’ve been researching and talking to my professors about grad programs.” Grad programs that I should already have researched enough to know my top choices so I can start thinking about the application process. But for some reason, I just can’t get myself to make a decision. “But, Mamma, what if I’m wrong? I picked biomedical engineering based on an aptitude test and an article I read in a science magazine when I was seventeen. And I know we got my tuition covered here at Rusk, but grad school won’t be that easy. It will be expensive. And . . . and I’m just worried that I’m going to spend all this time and money on something I arbitrarily chose as a teenager. Something that I could have gotten wrong.”
“If you got it wrong, so what? You think you have to get everything right on your first try?”
“With something like this? Yes. I do.”
“Oh, psssh. You are twenty years old. And you are brilliant and beautiful and driven, but you are not perfect, despite how often it seems so.” I do a weird, gurgly, sobbing laugh, and I can’t help but think about Torres last night. He called me perfect. Several times. But that was an entirely different kind of compliment, and one that has no business sneaking in around thoughts of my mom. She continues, “You are allowed to make mistakes, Nell. And even though it might seem right now like one mistake is enough to derail your entire future, it’s not.”
“You don’t understand, Mom.”
“Don’t I? I might not have gone to college or picked some high-tech career, but we all make choices. You don’t think I agonized
“Mamma,” I choke out, my voice surprising me as it cracks. And even though it’s just one word, she knows. In that way that all mothers seem to be able to tell what their kids are feeling with just a tiny sound.
“Oh, Nell. What happened?”
I don’t have words for all the things I’m feeling. It’s all too big. Too frightening to admit out loud.
“I’m doing everything wrong,” I tell her, because that’s what it feels like. I have this one chance to get things right, and I thought I was doing it it. I thought I knew what I wanted to do and who I was, and now all I can see is a future that terrifies me. A future where I turn out to have made all the wrong decisions.
“Impossible,” she says. “You’re too smart for that.”
That only makes me cry harder. Because that’s all I’ve got. I’m smart. But what does it really matter in the long run? What if I graduate in the spring, and then I go to grad school, and then I get my doctorate, and then I start working only to discover that I’ve spent years of my life pushing blindly toward a future that doesn’t make me happy? My brain has never been the problem. But my heart is an equation I don’t know how to solve.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
She’s a good mom. My parents are good parents. And I’ve always felt guilty that my only goal is to not be like them. It’s because of them that I don’t have to work. Because even though they were sad that I wanted to leave, they wanted me to have every opportunity, to take every chance that was offered to me. They wanted more than anything for me to be happy, and I’m screwing it all up .
I suck in a breath, trying not to let on just how freaked out I am. “I just . . . I’m lonely, Mamma. And tired. And I’m worried about the future, and I don’t know. It kind of all overwhelmed me this morning.”
Understatement of the century. But I hate making her worry.
“Why are you worried about the future? Are classes not going well?”
“No, classes are great. I’m doing really, really well. Still on track to graduate early, and I’ve been researching and talking to my professors about grad programs.” Grad programs that I should already have researched enough to know my top choices so I can start thinking about the application process. But for some reason, I just can’t get myself to make a decision. “But, Mamma, what if I’m wrong? I picked biomedical engineering based on an aptitude test and an article I read in a science magazine when I was seventeen. And I know we got my tuition covered here at Rusk, but grad school won’t be that easy. It will be expensive. And . . . and I’m just worried that I’m going to spend all this time and money on something I arbitrarily chose as a teenager. Something that I could have gotten wrong.”
“If you got it wrong, so what? You think you have to get everything right on your first try?”
“With something like this? Yes. I do.”
“Oh, psssh. You are twenty years old. And you are brilliant and beautiful and driven, but you are not perfect, despite how often it seems so.” I do a weird, gurgly, sobbing laugh, and I can’t help but think about Torres last night. He called me perfect. Several times. But that was an entirely different kind of compliment, and one that has no business sneaking in around thoughts of my mom. She continues, “You are allowed to make mistakes, Nell. And even though it might seem right now like one mistake is enough to derail your entire future, it’s not.”
“You don’t understand, Mom.”
“Don’t I? I might not have gone to college or picked some high-tech career, but we all make choices. You don’t think I agonized
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