I’m home for my birthday when I’m telling my father the news. Holidays have always been strained, awkward in their delivery. My mother fawns over me, asks me more questions than I can process. My father is stoic and insincere, quiet and cold, as he had always been. Cold, but occasionally encouraging. He found charm in all of my grandiose childhood aspirations, praised me when I dramatically declared I dreamed of being an astronaut or a doctor or a lawyer. Predictably, he had been less enthusiastic when, at sixteen, my aspirations shifted towards film.

We’re at the table when I tell him. “Dad,” I speak, confident despite knowing he will disapprove, “I made a pretty big decision this week. I… I’m going to quit school. I just do-.”

I am not even able to finish my thought before he interrupts me. “You are not quitting school. I never approved of this… acting business, but if you’re going to throw your life away, you might as well throw your life away and at least have something to show for it.”

Unable to stop myself, I roll my eyes and immediately, my mother scolds me. “Daniel, show your father some respect when he’s speaking to you!” I don’t say anything, and the atmosphere in the room plummets towards something more serious in a heartbeat. The air feels stale. My mouth feels dry. Devon is across the table, stifling a laugh, and I feel myself glower at her. Devon, the golden child. Devon, the twin who can do no wrong. Devon, the Columbia student with a 4.0 GPA and more extracurriculars than she can realistically manage.

“I knew you wouldn’t approve,” I finally start, solemn as I speak, hearing all of the time my father told me ‘you can do whatever you want when you grow up’ ring in my ears. This isn’t his first lie, it won’t be his last. I’ve long since accepted his flaws and understood them, adapted to them, side stepped them. “But I’ve made my decision. I’m going to finish the semester and then I’m going to look full-time for film work. I don’t want to spend two more years pretending I give a shit about classmates who hate me because I’ve already worked.”

And again, the atmosphere changes – this time, it becomes more stormy, and my father has hit a balled fist against the surface of my parents’ mahogany dining table. “Daniel Vanderlaar,” he fumes, never shouting – I can count the times my father has raised his voice on one hand. Instead, he opts for deep, ruminating disappointment. It drips off every word, his unyielding disapproval filling the room. “No son of mine is ever going to be a college drop out. You can stay in college, and we can support you, or you can do this on your own.”

I resist the urge to shout that he is being unreasonable, that he needs to let me explain. Better than anything, I know this ploy. The story he wants this to be is me succumbing to his will, me bending to his iron first, me being forever under his thumb.

Swallowing hard, I stand from the table, pulling the napkin off my lap as I do. “Fine.” The words mirror his, calm and quiet and measured and intentional. I don’t say another word as I leave the table, briefly climbing the stairs to my childhood bedroom to collect the few things that I’ve brought with me. My mother follows after me, pleading for me to reconsider as I’m on hold with the airline, changing my flight to the closest available option from Boston to Los Angeles. Stubborn and resistant, I assure her that I’m not changing my mind. Eventually, she stops. She kisses my forehead before I leave, wishes me well and tells me to call when I’m home. Devon smirks, tells me good luck, and jokes that she’ll send me a mock degree for paternal disappointment. My father doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t come to the door, and maintains radio silence for two years after I leave.