Dinner in the Dollhouse

A how-to guide on outgrowing your family

Illustration by Kain Kaiyala

Story by Jayna Fuher

“It is beautiful in Bellingham,” I told my suddenly attentive family gathered around the old wooden table.

“No, the weather isn’t that bad. So it rains nearly everyday, but you get used to it,” I assure my audience. You seem skeptical of my answer; how do I tell you it's the truth? I really have gotten used to the blanket of gray clouds shutting out any hope of sunlight.

“I love learning, and Western is great for that. Everyone I've met is kind and I'm making tons of friends,” I say, though this is largely up for debate. I can never tell the difference between being friendly and friends. I’m running from a threat I can’t even see: the threat of my lonely reality welcoming me to my lonely future.

“Swim team has helped me maintain a balanced lifestyle and it's so calming,” I tell them as they study my well-rehearsed answer with judgemental eyes.

If pushing myself to my absolute limit, backstroking out of the generational anger I'm bred into is considered calming, I’d be tranquil.

Am I exaggerating? Maybe a little. But is it wrong to want to seem happier? I sit across from you, and you sit across from me. I'm answering the empty questions while you stare with hollowed eyes and dull smiles.

“Do I miss home?”

I repeat your loaded question.

Yes, I miss home — constantly. My heart is heavy with homesickness, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold it together without breaking. Do I even have a home anymore? Bellingham isn’t quite home, but my hometown, Spokane, doesn’t feel that way either. I yearn for something I can no longer have. Maybe it’s security or even normalcy that I crave. Comfort and connections seem so far gone — a thing of the past at this point. But you don’t need to know that.

“Sometimes, but I am glad I took the leap and moved away,” I reply with my finest faked smile.

Now I've moved on to lying.

Must I stoop this low to preserve my image? The whole table sits and stares at me, slowly nibbling at their glazed ham, pushing around their mashed potatoes, eyes never leaving mine, as if the whole family might miss my confessions. The hair on the back of my neck is raised, my palms sweating, tucked under my thighs.

“No I don’t plan on moving back to this town anytime soon,” I spit out, as confidently as I can muster.

I want to leave all of you behind, leave all that you were to me and all that we could’ve been. I am far away from you. I don’t have to go over to your house for every family member's birthday. I’m doing well, or at least that’s what I’m going to let on. That's what you're going to know. I don’t need to give you more ammunition for your targeted comments.

You could call me, reach out, follow me on social media, be more than just aware that I exist and actually get to know me. It didn’t have to be this way, but there’s no world that doesn't have to be this way.

I hate that I would still give any of you my address if you asked. You never asked. You're my family, and while it might appear that you care, deep down I can’t crack your secret code. You could always visit if you wanted to. I know you never will but I hate the small part of myself that still wishes you would. If playing the game of the household, the family, is what I need to do, then so be it. Eating my peas and carrots, minding my p’s and q’s, I’ll say “thank you” and “Merry Christmas” and do it all again at Easter.