My Daughter Tried To Stop My Six-Week Solo Trailer Trip—Then One Question Made Me Realize What She Was Really Afraid Of
PART 2
I almost answered too quickly.
Four years of widowhood had taught me that “not like you” could mean almost anything. It could mean I had changed my hair. It could mean I had skipped church twice. It could mean I had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at Kate’s instead of insisting everyone come to me.
“What part isn’t like me?” I asked.
“The part where you decide something this big and tell us after it is basically done.”
“The deposit is refundable.”
“That is not what I mean.”
Owen put his fork down. “Kate.”
“No. She knows this is risky.”
“I know driving is risky,” I said. “I also know I am learning the part I do not know.”
Kate stood and carried her plate to the sink although dinner was not over. She had been doing that since she was sixteen whenever sitting still became harder than being angry.
“What happens if the trailer sways?” she asked over her shoulder.
“I slow gradually. I do not slam the brakes. I let the trailer brake controller help straighten it. Darlene has already made me watch three very boring videos.”
“What happens if you get a flat?”
“I pull over safely and call roadside assistance. I am not changing a trailer tire on the shoulder of an interstate to prove a point.”
“What if you get sick?”
“I come home.”
“What if you hate it?”
“I come home.”
“What if you love it?”
The question stopped me.
Kate turned from the sink.
Owen looked at her.
She seemed to hear herself only after the words were out.
“I mean,” she said, “what happens after six weeks?”
“Laundry, probably.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I do not have a secret second life scheduled for October.”
Her eyes moved around the dining room. Jim’s old clock still hung over the doorway. The oak cabinet held the wedding china we had used exactly twice in the previous decade. On the chair beside me sat a box of garage things I had promised myself I would donate Monday.
Kate saw the box.
“What is that?”
“Old camping gear. Things I do not use.”
“You’re getting rid of Dad’s stuff now?”
“Two cracked lanterns, a moldy rain tarp, and a camp stove that has not worked since 2017.”
She went very still.
Then she asked, “Are you planning to sell the house next?”
