Page 10 of Journey to Love

"Yes, Nana, I know," I reply with a smile, already feeling the need for a cigarette.

"Okay, just doing my due diligence as your grandmother," she shouts back, and I chuckle as I step out into the fresh air.

I finish my cigarette and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. With trembling fingers, I dial my dad's number. "Hello?" His voice sounds tired, worn out.

"Hey, Dad," I reply softly.

"Anya?" He sounds surprised, maybe even relieved. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I assure him, though my voice wavers with emotion.

There's a long pause, filled with unspoken tension. "I'm sorry," I finally offer, breaking the silence.

Then I hear my mom's voice in the background, raised in anger. My dad speaks to her, his words muffled through the phone. Finally, he returns to the call. "I'm putting you on speaker, hang on," he informs me.

I mutter to myself, "I need another smoke for this," and light another cigarette as I wait.

Then my mom's voice explodes through the phone, full of hurt and frustration. "WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME! TO US! ANYA!" Her words pierce through me, and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear.

My dad intervenes, trying to calm her down. I can hear her sobbing now, and it breaks my heart. I hate hearing her cry, knowing that I'm the cause.

After a while, my dad and mom both return to the call. "Anya, why? I just want to know why?" my mom pleads.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, wiping away tears that have begun to fall. "Because I felt like I was suffocating," I confess, my voice trembling with emotion. "You keep me in the house and won't allow me to go out and be with my friends. I know that sounds childish—."

“You’re right it is childish, you don’t get what you want, so you run away from home!” My mom interrupts, her voice sharp with anger.

“Let her finish,” my dad interjects, his tone firm but calm.

I clear my throat and take another deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I know it sounds like something a teenager would say, but even when I told you guys that I had no problems telling you where I was gonna be and who I was gonna be with, you still said that it was too dangerous for me to go anywhere I wanted,” I explain, trying to keep my voice steady.

My mom scoffs incredulously, “What are you talking about? You come with me to women’s bible study, you leave to go to church, and you even went to the birthday party last week after church.”

I let out a frustrated sigh, feeling my patience wearing thin. “Mom, those are all things you wanted me to do. The women’s group are all women your age, the birthday party was for one of YOUR church friends, and I don’t like going to church anymore because everyone there looks at and treats me differently ever since Paul. So, no, I could not do things that I wanted to do,” I explain, my voice tinged with frustration and hurt.

“Well, why didn’t you just talk to me about it?” my mom snaps, her frustration evident.

“Because then I would still be stuck at home. So, I figured I would rather tolerate the fake people at church and deal with the sideways glances from your friends, than stay at home bored out of my mind,” I reply, my tone edged with frustration.

“They are not being fake, Anya! Everyone at church cares about you,” my mom insists.

“No, Mom, not everyone,” I say firmly, feeling the tension rising. I pinch between my eyes again, feeling the start of a headache.

“How can you say that!” she exclaims.

“Mom, not everyone at church cares! Because shortly after the whole Paul situation happened, I was in the bathroom stalls and I overheard a few of the elders, I won’t say names. But they were making comments about how I, ME! They used MY name! Talking about how I embarrassed the church and how I could let that man manipulate everyone!” I take another calming breath. “So no mom, they don’t care about me.”

I wait a few minutes, the silence heavy on the line. “Look, I’m sorry that my actions hurt you, and I am sorry that I’ve disappointed you. But I need to figure out my life, on my own terms, and in my own way,” I finally say, my voice softening with sincerity.

My dad clears his throat once more and then lets out a breath, “Okay, we can accept that.”

“Thank you,” I say with a breath of relief.

“You can have Nana bring you over here if want, so you can grab your car,” my dad replies.

“Okay, we’ll come by today…and dad?” I pause.

“Hmm?” he responds.

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