Chapter 27 - college taught me that asking why was never the problem
I studied psychology after all.
Not because the fire assigned me a destiny.
I almost chose architecture purely to avoid being predictable.
Then realized choosing a career to prove trauma did not control me was another way of letting trauma control me.
So psychology.
I liked it.
Especially systems.
Family systems.
Institutional assumptions.
How groups normalize inequality until the person naming it becomes the difficult one.
That felt familiar.
During my second year, a professor discussed “high-functioning children.”
The phrase made my stomach turn.
After class I stayed behind.
“Can that label be harmful?”
He said:
“Anything can be harmful if adults use it to reduce support.”
There.
Strong.
Independent.
Mature.
High-functioning.
Beautiful words capable of becoming excuses.
I wrote my final paper on resilience language.
Not about my own family specifically.
About the difference between recognizing strength and using strength to justify neglect.
Tessa read it.
Then called.
“You used me.”
“Anonymous composite.”
“I recognize my own sentence.”
“You said a lot of things.”
“Royalty.”
“No.”
Jonah read it too.
By then he was eighteen and preparing for college himself.
He had shifted his living arrangement again.
More time with Bennett.
Still holidays with Tessa.
Regular dinners with Corinne.
His life no longer formed a neat custody pie.
It formed relationships.
I liked that.
One night he called.
“Dad asked about you.”
My chest tightened slightly.
“What?”
“He asked how college is.”
“That’s allowed.”
“I know.”
“He said he’s proud of you.”
I became quiet.
“Okay.”
Jonah waited.
“You want me to tell him anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Test.”
“I hate you.”
He laughed.
Later that month I called Bennett myself.
First time without logistics.
“Hi.”
A pause.
“Maren?”
“No, tax department.”
He laughed.
We talked twenty-three minutes.
School.
Jonah.
His work.
Nothing about the fire.
I noticed afterward.
A conversation with Bennett had occurred without becoming a referendum on whether he was my father.
That felt more healing than any dramatic apology.
Corinne and I had a different relationship.
More frequent.
Harder.
Mother-daughter closeness returned in fragments.
I called when sick once.
She drove three hours with soup.
I immediately became furious.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
The answer disarmed me.
I ate the soup.
She slept in a hotel.
Did not assume my dorm room or life belonged to her.
Another fragment.
When I asked too many questions, nobody called me difficult anymore.
When Jonah wanted something different from me, I did not automatically hear rejection.
Not always.
Enough.
The family hierarchy had not flipped.
May you like
It was slowly being dismantled.
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