Trading City Lights for Country Roads: A Son’s Reckoning

“We can’t do this anymore, Chris. We’re going back to the farm.” My dad’s voice was thin, like he’d already been crying. I stared at him, the half-eaten pizza slice in my hand growing cold. Mom was sitting on the edge of the couch, fists pressed into her knees, her eyes fixed on the carpet. The TV flickered in the background—some sitcom laugh track echoing through the room, jarringly out of place.

“No, you’re not serious,” I managed, my chest tightening. “Dad, you just got that promotion. You’ve been working your whole life for this. And now—what? We’re just going to leave?”

He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “Chris, we’re tired. This city…it isn’t living. Not for us.”

Mom finally looked up, tears threatening to spill. “We want a real life, son. And you’re coming with us.”

I remember storming out, slamming the door so hard the frames rattled. I texted Maureen, my girlfriend: “You won’t believe this. My parents want to move back to Dad’s old farm. I’m not going.”

Three weeks later, after tense silences and explosive fights, we were boxed up and on the road. Our four-bedroom apartment in Indianapolis was traded for a battered pickup and a trailer stuffed with everything we could carry. I watched the city skyline recede in the rearview mirror, my headphones blaring, refusing to let myself cry.

When we rolled into the old farmhouse in rural Indiana, I felt like I’d stepped into a stranger’s dream. The porch sagged, the paint peeled, and the fields stretched endlessly, brown and dead in the late winter. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away. The Wi-Fi barely worked. I texted Maureen again. “This place is a joke. Call me.”

But she didn’t call. My friends faded away, too—first slow, then all at once. I scrolled through social media, watching their parties, their college applications, their lives going on without me. I tried not to resent my parents, but every time I heard Mom humming while she unpacked jars of preserves from the cellar, I wanted to scream.

Dad tried to involve me in chores. “Come on, Chris, grab a hammer. Let’s fix this fence.”

“I don’t care about your stupid fence!” I snapped. He looked away, jaw clenched.

At dinner, Mom offered, “I can teach you how to make bread, if you’d like.”

“I’d like to eat something that isn’t homemade for once,” I muttered, shoving my chair back and leaving the table.

One night, I overheard them in the kitchen. Mom’s voice was tremulous. “Maybe we made a mistake, John. Chris hates us.”

Dad’s voice was low. “We did this for him. For us. We were falling apart in the city.”

“He doesn’t see it that way.”

I pressed my ear to the door, feeling hot tears prick my eyes. I wanted to run back to my old life, but there was nowhere to go. My friends wouldn’t answer my texts. Maureen had moved on, posting selfies with someone new. I started sleeping in late, skipping meals, barely speaking. The silence out here was suffocating.

Then one afternoon, Dad found me sitting on the porch steps, scrolling through my phone for the hundredth time. He sat beside me, silent for a while. The sky was streaked with orange. He finally said, “When I was your age, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. Thought the city would fix everything.”

“Guess it didn’t,” I muttered.

He smiled sadly. “No, it didn’t. Money, big apartments, nice cars…they’re great. But your mom and I—we lost something. Each other. Ourselves. I was drinking too much. She was always anxious. You were always alone, in your room.”

His words hung in the air. I wanted to tell him I’d been lonely here, too. But I just shrugged.

Later, Mom tried again. “Chris, I know this is hard. But we can make it work. Maybe you could help me at the farmers’ market this weekend?”

I almost said no. But something in her voice—hope, desperation—made me nod. It was awkward at first, standing behind the table of canned jams and baskets of eggs, trying to smile at strangers. But an old woman bought my mom’s apple butter and said, “Your boy? Handsome!”

Mom beamed. I felt a flicker of pride.

School was hell at first. I was the city kid, an outsider. I missed my old friends, my old routines. On the bus, kids whispered, “That’s Chris—his folks left a big city job for a dump.”

One day, a guy named Aaron slid into the seat next to me. “You really from Indianapolis?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks. But hey, you play guitar? We need someone for our band.”

I hesitated. “I guess.”

Aaron grinned. “Cool. Practice is Saturday. I’ll pick you up.”

For the first time, I didn’t dread the weekend. I started playing with Aaron’s band. We weren’t great, but it felt good to make noise, to lose myself in something. My parents came to our first show at the VFW hall. Mom cheered louder than anyone.

The farm was still falling apart, but I started helping Dad more. Sometimes, we’d work in silence; other times, he’d tell stories about his dad teaching him to drive the tractor, or the time he fell asleep in the hayloft and woke up covered in kittens. I still missed the city—late-night food, concerts, the hum of traffic—but I stopped fighting every moment here.

One night, months after we’d moved, I found Mom crying in the kitchen. She tried to hide it, but I saw. “Are you okay?”

She wiped her face. “I just…sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing. I want you to be happy.”

I hugged her. “I’m getting there.”

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes I still hated the quiet, resented the work, missed everything I’d left behind. But there were new moments—bonfires, band practices, the satisfaction of fixing something with my own hands.

Now, as I walk the fields at sunset, I wonder: Did we really lose something by leaving the city, or did we finally find what matters? Would you trade comfort for connection, if it meant starting over? I want to know—what would you have done?