I moved away to college right out of high school. The university I attended was a little over 300 miles from the family homestead, but I managed to get back for weekends, breaks, etc. about once a month my freshman year. Life was pretty Okay. I had my quasi-adult life at school, living in the dorms, but I also had the security of my childhood home and family.
One day the summer between my freshman and sophomore year my mother told me that I had until school started in August - about six weeks away - to move completely out. I was 19. She told me she wasn’t going to store any of my belongings at the house, so anything I could not fit in my shared dorm room I had to either sell or throw away. Furthermore, I wasn’t allowed to return to my family home except to visit on Christmas Day. I wasn’t allowed to spend the night in the home I was raised in after that August. I had a job that summer, so when I wasn’t working I was throwing out pretty big parts of my childhood: year books, photo albums, awards and 4H ribbons, stuff my mother was unwilling to keep for me until I graduated and found more permanent digs.
I wasn’t a behavior problem kid. I was on an academic scholarship, got really good grades, and I worked part-time on campus to pay for my books and housing. I ended up having to postpone my graduation by a year because I needed to take a paid internship to cover break and summer housing as well as my own car insurance (she’d also taken me off her policy despite the fact that I’d never had an accident or ticket).
Looking back I realize this was her ham-handed of making me an “adult.” But it was really clumsy and harsh - none of her friends or our family had done anything like that with their college-aged children, and my younger half-brother lived at home year-round until he was 21, finished community college, and joined the Air Force. I can still today feel the anxiety this provoked; it was literally like my life imploded over six weeks. And the loneliness of being in the dorms over Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter breaks, when everyone else (except a handful of international students) had gone home to their families, is still with me.
And my relationship with my mother was never the same. How could it be? We’ve rarely talked since that summer, and it’s been almost 30 years. So anyone who’s thinking about cutting children out of the family just because they’re 18 take heed. You may make adults out of them, but you also may rarely see them again.
Luna