When Family Visits Stir Up Old Wounds: My Battle with Small Town Expectations

“You better get here before noon, Emily. Aunt Linda and Uncle Mike are coming, and you know how your cousins are about lunch.”

My mother’s voice was sharp, even through the static of the old landline. I stared at the kitchen wall in my tiny Columbus apartment, my heart sinking. The word “relatives” was enough to send a shiver down my spine—a Pavlovian response after years of awkward weekends, forced smiles, and the relentless judgment that always seemed to hover around the dinner table.

But this time, I wasn’t the same Emily who had left for college four years ago, quietly packing my suitcase with more relief than regret. I was tired of pretending. Tired of swallowing my discomfort at the way my family talked about the world, about me, about everything that didn’t fit their narrow definition of “normal.”

Still, I owed my mother at least an answer. “I’ll be there,” I said, my voice tighter than intended.

“Good girl. Bring that apple pie recipe you tried last Thanksgiving. Your cousin Lisa’s been dying for it.”

I bit back a laugh. Lisa hadn’t spoken to me in months, not since I’d posted about the protests downtown. But I didn’t argue. What was the point?

I left early Saturday, my stomach churning with a familiar, bitter anticipation. The drive took me past endless miles of soybeans and corn, the fields stretching out like a green-and-gold quilt. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white.

By the time I pulled up to the old farmhouse, the yard was already full of cars. I could see my little cousins chasing each other among the peonies, their laughter echoing across the yard. For a second, I envied their innocence.

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and fried chicken. My mom was in the kitchen, her hands deep in a bowl of dough, her hair pinned back just so. She gave me a quick, floury hug but her eyes scanned my face for signs of trouble.

“Smile, Em. Today’s about family.”

I forced a grin. “Sure, Mom.”

The relatives started pouring in, each one with a story, a complaint, a pointed question. Uncle Mike, booming and red-faced, clapped me on the shoulder. “Still living in the city, huh? Don’t you miss real life out here?”

Aunt Linda eyed my haircut. “That’s new. Very…modern.”

Lisa hovered by the drinks, scrolling on her phone, barely glancing up. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in my throat.

Lunch was a cacophony of clattering dishes and overlapping conversations. My dad told the same joke about the neighbor’s tractor. My brothers debated the best fishing spots. Inevitably, the conversation turned to politics, and I felt every muscle in my body tense.

Uncle Mike leaned in. “So, Emily, you still hanging out with those protestors? You know, back in my day, we respected the law.”

My mother shot me a warning glance, but I was done swallowing my opinions. “Sometimes the law needs to change, Uncle Mike. That’s how things get better.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Aunt Linda pursed her lips. My father cleared his throat. But then Lisa surprised me.

“She’s right,” Lisa said quietly, still not looking up from her phone. “Some things do need to change.”

A ripple went through the table. My heart hammered. It was the first time I’d ever heard Lisa take my side.

After lunch, I slipped out to the porch, needing air. The quiet pressed in on me, the way it always had. I watched the wind ripple through the fields, feeling both a part of this place and utterly alien.

My mom came out after a while, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You know, your grandmother used to sit out here when she needed to think. She always said the land helped her remember who she was.”

I looked at her, really looked—at the lines in her face, the worry in her eyes. “I don’t know if I belong here, Mom. Or anywhere.”

She sat down beside me, her voice soft. “I know it’s hard, Emily. But family—this place—it’s a part of you, even if you don’t see it yet.”

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. The truth was, I missed parts of this life: the smell of cut grass, the taste of homemade pie, the simplicity of a world where everyone knew your name. But I also knew I couldn’t go back to pretending. I was tired of living two lives—one for them, one for me.

As the day wound down and relatives started to leave, Lisa caught me in the hallway. “Hey. Thanks for saying what you did at lunch. I… I think about that stuff, too. I just never say anything.”

I smiled, a real one this time. “You should. Maybe next time, we’ll both say something.”

Driving back to Columbus that night, I thought about what it means to belong, to grow, to change. I realized family isn’t about pretending to fit someone else’s mold. Maybe it’s about being brave enough to show them who you really are.

Sometimes I wonder—if we all stopped pretending, would we find out we’re not so different after all?