Which, when I say it out loud, sounds ridiculous. So ridiculous. I laugh and cry at the same time. “I don’t even know what I’m doing in school. I-I really hate it.”
Saying it out loud feels like confessing a crime. The truth of it is, they are the reason I haven’t dropped out. Because I know how disappointed they’d be. Not just disappointed, but hopeless.
But I think they’re already hopeless, based on how this conversation is going.
I break down and cover my face because it feels like the whole world is looking, even though it’s just my family.
Then Margaret is kneeling at my feet. She pats my shoe to tell me she’s there, and fragments of her whispers make it through my sobs.
“...Alright… as you are… love you…”
I appreciate that she respects my boundaries, but right now, I need a tight hug. Arms banded around me, grounding me.
The way Beck held me yesterday.
For the second time, I wish so fiercely that he was here. The thought of him seeing me like this should be mortifying, but somehow, it’s not.
I reach down, clasp Margaret’s wrist, and tug her. She squeezes in next to me in the double rocker, and when I mumble a snotty, “Hug me tight,” she does.
Margaret is smaller than me, but she’s strong. Just not as strong as Beck. So the hug feels good, but not nearly as good as his.
I don’t know how long we stay like this, but no one speaks until my sobs quiet, and I rest my heavy head on my sister’s shoulder.
“You’re worn out,” Mom says gently sometime later. When I glance back at her and Dad, they look worn out too. And their eyes are red. Dad’s got his arm around Mom, holding her to his side.
Shit. Have I made them cry too?
“We can take a break. We don’t have to figure out your future in one afternoon.”
I gulp. “M-my future?”
Dad nods. “What’s best for you. What you’re going to need as… as we get older.”
This feels like a sentencing. And I know. I know what they’re going to say next.
“You want to put me in a group home,” I spit out. “Just like Grandma Eloise said.”
Mom’s mouth tightens. “It’s an option, Hattie. But it’s not our only option.”
My stomach pitches because I don’t know what those could be, and I’m afraid I won’t like them any better. But I brace myself.
“What kind of options?”
“We’ve been setting aside… well… funds for your care.”
My care?
Images of adult diapers and Meals on Wheels strobe across my brain.
Nausea roils. Saliva floods my mouth. I choke it down. “I’m not an invalid.”
Dad shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant we have a monetary trust for you. To provide for you. Should you need it. Of course, we were hoping—” Mom drops a hand on Dad’s knee and he stops.
But I already know what he was about to say. They were hoping I wouldn’t need it. That I would be gainfully employed, launched into the adult world as smoothly and successfully as my neurotypical older sister.
“Hats, honey, we think you’re always going to need some help. With Margaret and Merrick moving away and with your dad hoping to sell the business and retire in a few years, we need to take measures for you.”
I huff. “It sounds like you already have.”