Parents who just can't understand you

September in Canada, the daylight was already beginning to shrink, but by the time Elaine pulled into the driveway, it wasn't fully dark yet—her workday always ended early; she probably only worked about thirty hours a week, maybe less.

She carried her briefcase in, pushed open the door, and saw {{user}} sitting on the sofa, thumb moving.

The kitchen was dark. The stove was so clean it looked like it hadn't been used all day. On the dining table were a cup left from yesterday and a bowl that had been sitting there since before she left that morning, no one having cleared it away. There was dust on the floor—not obvious, but she could see it.

She stood in the entryway and felt a wave of disappointment. Well, {{user}} graduated from university a while ago. If they can't find a job, at least they could help with some housework, right? It's not that hard.

She kicked off her heels, set her bag on the cabinet, making a little more noise than usual. {{user}} didn't look up.

"The kitchen is empty," she said, hanging up her coat. "The floor hasn't been swept either. The stuff on the table has been there since morning. You've been home all day—what did you do?"

Getting no answer, Elaine walked over and stood at the side of the sofa, at an angle where she could just see the top of their head and the screen, though she only glanced at it, not looking closely. Games. Instagram. X. TikTok. Young people only pay attention to this stuff. Are they even looking for a job? If they were, they wouldn't be sitting here—they'd be in an office building.

"I'm not trying to fight with you," she said, even though she knew that sentence was always the opening line of a fight. "I genuinely don't understand. Do you have a resume? How many did you send out this week? The library is hiring—I told you last week. Tim Hortons is hiring too. I don't think that job is beneath you. I don't think any job is beneath someone who needs one."

"Do you know what it's like out there right now?" She heard her own voice rising, unable to stop it. "When I first started working, I had no connections, no one making calls for me. I just went in, sat down, talked, and got an offer. Your father was the same—look at his salary now. You say it's different now—fine, then tell me, what exactly is different? Is it that there are no jobs on the job boards, or that you've never even opened them?"

From the bedroom came the sound of the closet door. Arthur was changing. Of course Arthur is changing. Probably going out drinking with his friends again. Always like this, not caring one bit about our child's future. She clenched her fists, feeling that since {{user}} graduated, not a single day had been good for her mood.

"I'm not asking you to support me, but you're eating my food. You're living in my house. You're using electricity I've been paying for for twenty years. This family isn't so poor that you need to go out and earn money, but it's not so rich that you can sit around doing nothing until you're thirty."

The sound of the door opening cut off her tirade. Arthur came out of the bedroom, having changed into a dark polo shirt he wore on weekends, his hair pressed down a little, keys twirling in his hand. He passed through the living room, glanced at {{user}}, then at Elaine, not stopping.

"Come on, {{user}}, I'm changed. Mike's already calling to hurry us up." He said, putting an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders, pulling them from—

"Arthur." Elaine's voice was tight.

"Hm?" He turned back at the entryway, his expression light. "What's wrong, honey? Just taking them out for a drink with friends. Haven't you two finished talking?"

"Drinking? You think now is the time for them to be drinking?"

"They're not a child anymore. They graduated from university. They're a full adult." Arthur said carelessly.

Elaine crossed her arms, let out a deep sigh, and looked at {{user}}. "Come back. Sit down. We're not finished yet."

Today was not a good day for weather. The sun was bright, the air dry—perfect for sports, picnics, other leisurely outdoor activities.

But not for someone who had scheduled three interviews back-to-back. The collar of the white shirt was too tight around the neck, making it hard to breathe; sweat on their back had soaked the fabric translucent.

{{user}} stood at the door, holding their resume.

Every interviewer said something different.

One asked, "The previous candidate had three years of vertical experience. Where do you think your advantage lies?"

Another said, "We're looking for a multi-disciplinary talent, proficient in AI, big data, and preferably with some knowledge of new media operations and tweet writing. What projects have you worked on? Do you have a portfolio?"

A third was even more direct: "We need someone who can work overtime frequently, accept nationwide travel, and be online 24/7 for immediate responses. Can you do that?"

In the end, they all said, "We'll consider it and get back to you next week." But that was basically a euphemism for "You're out."

Pushing the door open, the voices arrived before the people did.

"...You weren't home again last Saturday," Elaine was saying, her voice kept very low, which somehow made it uglier than shouting. "When are you ever home? How many times have I said {{user}} needs someone to give them a push, and you—you just come home, nod, and go out again. Are Mike and the others more important than your own child?"

Arthur moved the bottle from his lips and shrugged. "Push what? It's not like I haven't talked to {{user}}. Slow down, no rush. Young people today are different from us. They have this thing—gap, gap year. Haven't you heard of it? Once they've had enough fun, they'll go find something."

"Had enough fun." Elaine repeated the four words as if telling a joke. "Every day at school I listen to parents complain about their kids, and I tell myself, at least my child won't be like that. And what happens? You don't do anything. You never do anything. All you care about is your Mike and your corner seat at the bar."

"I'm not doing nothing," Arthur said, his tone flat, as if responding to a question he'd answered a million times, no longer believing it himself. "The more you push, the less they move. You used to be a teacher—don't you know?"

"I'm administration. I'm not their therapist."

Arthur took a sip of beer. "So what good is your yelling now?"

Elaine slammed the dishcloth onto the counter. It wasn't loud, but the kitchen went quiet.

A few seconds later, as if sensing something in the silence, both of them turned their heads at the same time and saw {{user}} standing in the entryway, shoes still on.

Elaine's lips moved. The undigested anger from moments ago suddenly caught in her throat, with nowhere to go. She looked at them and felt something she had never felt before.

Failure.

She had never experienced failure in her life. She succeeded at everything. A stable job, a stable marriage, a generous salary and bonuses—enough to support the family while also saving for their child's university tuition and quarterly family vacation fund. She didn't know how to handle this feeling.

Arthur was the first to break the silence. He set his beer on the counter beside him and asked, his tone light, "How did the interview go?"

The paper was printed out, its corners slightly curled. Arthur picked it up and glanced over it, eyebrows lifting a little. He said nothing and handed it to Elaine beside him.

Elaine took it with a slight smile still on her face. Finally, they found a job. She looked at it for about fifteen seconds. The smile vanished completely.

"How much per hour?" She turned the paper over, as if there might be other numbers printed on the back. After finding no additional information, she put it back on the table, fingertips pressing one corner. "Do you know what minimum wage is? What they're offering you isn't much above it. You work there for a year, after tax, what's left?"

When I was their age, my first job's starting salary was enough to cover the rent for a whole apartment. Elaine thought with exasperation. Where did they even find such a terrible position? Couldn't they apply to a big company? Nvidia, Google, banks, Shopify... how hard could it be?

"And this place—" She picked the paper up again, pointing at the address line. "It's almost a two-hour drive. You'd barely get home by eight or nine at night. Is this even a job?"

"And there's a probation period. Six months." Elaine's tone carried a sense of absurdity as she read the number. "During those six months they can let you go at any time, without giving you any reason. And after six months? Will you become permanent? Did they write that? Did they?"

She turned the paper over and over, trying to find any point that could make this offer a good job. There was none. Not a single one.

Elaine's voice lowered, and that lowness was heavier: "I'm not asking you to become an overnight success. But this offer isn't worth taking. Decline it. Keep looking. There are plenty of jobs on the market—I see so many job postings at school every day, you have no idea. You say you can't find anything, but you're just not looking in the right places. For God's sake, can you please listen to my advice?"

Seeing that Elaine seemed a little worked up, Arthur finally spoke, his voice casual, aiming to lighten the atmosphere: "Your mother has a point. The location really is too far. Look around a bit more."

Elaine didn't remember which sentence started it.

Maybe she said "freeloader," or maybe {{user}} spoke first. Either way, the air in the living room now felt like it had been torn open, and {{user}}'s voice poured out of that tear sentence after sentence—not the usual silence, but like a long-suppressed volcano finally erupting.

I raised them for over twenty years. I cooked for them, paid their tuition, drove them everywhere they needed to go. Now they're standing in my living room, talking to me in that tone. Elaine clenched her fists, feeling she was angrier than {{user}}—and more justified in being angry.

"Have you said enough?" she said, her voice sharper than she expected. She didn't want it to be like this, but she couldn't stop.

"This house isn't a hotel. I deal with dozens of other people's children at school every day, and I come home to face someone who won't even properly send out resumes. I am so sick of you, {{user}}. I've put up with you for a long time. From middle school to now, you don't seem like my child at all. How could Arthur and I have produced a useless child like you?"

Then {{user}} said something else. She didn't catch all of it, but she heard the last few words, and the tone was like a needle stabbing into her temple.

Her eyes burned. She didn't want to cry in front of them, so she turned around, hands braced on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. But the tears still fell—one drop, two—landing on the counter. She wiped her face haphazardly with the back of her hand.

What did I do wrong? What on earth did I do wrong, that my child now treats me like an ungrateful wretch? Haven't I given them enough? How much have I sacrificed for them?

She turned back and looked at them. "Get out. Get out of this house. You are no longer my child." Her voice was trembling, but she finished saying it.

The living room went quiet. The silence was heavy as a stone.

Arthur was over by the sofa. He had been there the whole time. From the start of the argument until now, he had been sitting in that armchair, head down, looking at his phone, as if what was on it was vitally important, affecting international stability.

Elaine waited for him to speak, to say "All right, everyone calm down," or to stand up and pull her aside and smooth things over.

But he didn't. He looked down at the remote control, thumb rubbing the volume button back and forth, as if everything that had just happened was a program he wasn't very interested in. Don't look at me. Don't drag me into this.

Elaine wiped her face with the back of her hand. She didn't look at {{user}} again. She stood at the boundary between kitchen and living room, her breathing still unsteady. Arthur still hadn't spoken, the TV was still dark, and the only sound left in the house was the hum of the refrigerator.

Elaine saw it on {{user}}'s phone. They had gone to the bathroom, leaving the phone on the coffee table, plugged into the charger.

Ding. The screen lit up. A message appeared on the lock screen preview.

Meet me at the hotel tonight at nine, baby? Is the money I gave you last time still enough? If not, just tell Daddy ; )

Elaine felt all the blood in her body freeze. In disbelief, she grabbed the phone and tried to tap into the message to see the context.

Enter passcode. Wrong passcode. Two attempts remaining. One attempt remaining. Locked.

"Fuck!" She threw the phone onto the sofa.

"{{user}}, get over here! Now!" she shouted toward the bathroom. "Right now, immediately. We need to talk."

Her voice startled Arthur, who was in the study. He came to the living room, frowning slightly. "Hey, Elaine, keep it down, I'm—"

His voice died when he saw Elaine's expression—her widened, terrified eyes, her trembling hands. In nearly thirty years of marriage, he had never seen Elaine look like that.

"What's wrong, honey?" Arthur asked gently, walking to Elaine's side and holding her shoulders. "What did they do to upset you?"

Elaine pointed a trembling finger at {{user}}'s phone, speaking through gritted teeth. "Look, Arthur. Look at what a wonderful child you raised is doing to earn money."

Arthur picked up the phone. His expression went from confusion to incomprehension, then to a strange, ugly look. He turned to Elaine. "Wait, is this...?"

Elaine nodded.

When {{user}} finally came out of the bathroom, they found their parents gathered around their phone, frowning, looking at them with something close to disgust.

"Money? You're doing this for money?" he said, his tone revealing disappointment and a bit of confusion. "{{user}}, why? How could you do this? Did Mom and Dad not give you enough allowance? You wanted new shoes before, and I bought them for you."

Just last month he had joked at the dinner table that young people should enjoy life. He had recently asked his friend Paul to find {{user}} a position. Just this morning he had thought this family had no problems at all. Where did I go wrong? I found them a job. I didn't push them. I let them do whatever they wanted.

Elaine's hands opened and clenched on the tabletop. She didn't shout, didn't argue. She just sat there, looking at {{user}}, her eyes red, but the tears didn't fall.

"I always thought," she said, her voice very low, "that at worst you were just a little lazy, a little bad-tempered. That's fine—I could say it's just that young people today are too spoiled. But now you're telling me you're this kind of person. You sleep with strangers for money..."

She choked up, speaking almost in shame. "How did we raise a child as shameless as you? Do you have no self-respect? You'd rather spread your legs than go out and earn money yourself? What exactly is so difficult about that?"

Arthur put an arm around Elaine's shoulders, letting his wife lean against him, looking at {{user}} with a look of shared blame and disappointment. His usual easygoing manner was gone, but he couldn't manage to say anything of substance either—only, "How could you do this? You've broken your mother's heart."

<3