Disclaimer: disclaimed.
Yesterday
He watches the house grow smaller as his mother drives away. Perhaps his father is standing at the window watching them go as well (he can only hope), but then again, perhaps not. He looks over at his mother's tense, taut face, and he knows it will be a long drive before she'll be relaxed enough for them to go home. He won't complain though – he's already prepared: he's brought his biology textbook with him to study, even though his father says that reading in a moving car ruins the eyes. His father's not often wrong about things: why can't he be wrong about this? He looks over at his mother again, and he can see the lines from his parents' latest fight hard and angry on her face. The driving will make it fade away, he knows from experience. It's her way of relieving the tension, and it's worth it, although the petrol prices do look worrying. And when they finally get home, she'll retrieve the bottle of wine from the pantry and take a glass – just one glass. And then maybe if she's feeling better, she'll go to sleep – best case scenario. The other options simply mean more yelling, and it's not that bad – he's used to that.
He looks at his mother again, and he really wants to ask her if she loves his father, but he can't bring himself to do it, because he knows he's scared of what the answer will be. Does he? Sometimes he thinks he hates him, but that makes him feel terrible, because doesn't one of the Ten Commandments say to honour your parents? Besides, he knows he does love his father really; it's just that sometimes he just doesn't like him. He loves him because his father is his father after all. Try as he may, he just cannot bring himself not to love his father. It's probably an early indoctrination by the Church or something, and he can't help but feel glad for it. How guilty would he feel if he didn't love his father? He doesn't even want to think about it. It's hard enough not liking his father sometimes.
Why doesn't he like his father? The question lingers in his mind, and staring blankly out the window, he ponders it. He doesn't like his father because he's pompous, never at home, always right and makes his mother unhappy. Because he's never there when he needs (wants?) him and then he never really cares either. Or maybe because his father is the epitome of everything he ever wanted to be, but is never going to be, because he refuses to follow in father's footsteps – his father's shadow.
He cannot imagine trailing behind his father everyday – he certainly doesn't want to. His father may be charming and successful, and all the strangers may like him and adore him, but if he were to ever follow him in his profession he wouldn't stay in Australia, because here everyone knows his last name, and he cannot imagine ever being his own person. Not here. And because he cannot leave his mother – she needs him to sit beside her when she drives – he won't ever be a doctor. It doesn't matter how much he wants to, because he knows that his father won't be there for his mother. Ever. So he'll put aside everything that he might want to do, because his mother always comes first. Right?
The pace of the car on the road is slower now, and his mother is looking at the houses that line the road, a familiar wistful expression on her face. As he watches her, he knows that she is remembering the day when she got married, and how she dreamed of a beautiful white-picket-fence life and remembering, remembering how it never came true. He can't help but doubt how well she knew his father if she really expected that to be the type of life she was vowing to keep true to. At least she isn't crying – yet.
He knows this routine so well. He's almost sure that she has only about thirty-eight different driving routes that she takes them on, but he's not completely certain yet. He also knows that when he gets home, his father will have gone out or locked himself in his study, and that there will be at least five minutes of peace before it all starts again. Because it's too much to hope that today will be a Good Day – he can't help but think in capitals. Good Days have been scarce and few lately.
He looks at his mother. The tears are falling freely down her cheeks now. That's his cue: he puts his hand over hers.
"Let's go home now, Mother."
And she complies.