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I have to hold my beanie down as I walk from the airplane across the tarmac. I also have to clutch my backpack to my chest. Both hands occupied, I am left to pretend that my skirt isn’t ballooning up in the wind leaving my butt on display to the old couple behind me. Yeah, Wellington. I get it. You’re not like Dunedin – you have wind.

Distracted by the weather, I suddenly wonder if they’re there. I squint through the strands of hair that plaster my face. Oh yes, they are. There’s no mistaking it because there’s no one else waiting except my two parents. They’re standing so close to the sliding door that the other passengers ahead of me have to squeeze past them in order to get into the airport. But, being parents, as a unit they somehow confirm and exemplify their own oblivion to the social protocol of stepping aside. It’s endearing. I smile, despite myself.

I walk past the sliding door, directly into them. “Hi.” Mum’s eyes glisten and Dad – well – Dad is about to hug me when he catches the eye of someone he knows from work. A lesson on parents: distant acquaintances from something ambiguously work related > supposedly cherished and beautiful daughter. As Dad walks ahead of us, Mum uses the opportunity to leverage herself into the position of The Better Parent, because family hierarchy is a constant battle. “I made your father drop me off before he parked because I wanted to be right there when you got off the plane,” she hurriedly whispers to me as she glares at Dad’s back. “You’ll never guess what he did. As I was walking I checked behind myself to see if he was there. At the far end of the airport I saw a man running strangely. It was your father. He was imitating a zombie from one of his shows. So I started to run.”

“But you were on the other side of the airport,” I reply, mortified; the mood exemplified by the sharp talons of the eagle sculpture swaying above our heads. Again, Wellington, I get it.

“No, it didn’t matter. I got into survival mode.” Yes, this happened. My parents had been chasing each other through the airport. Now I am, for all to see, associated with them. I took a wide step to the left of Mum and Dad who had regrouped by the baggage claim. At least they had promised to take me out to dinner.

As we head to the car, Dad was out in front. Again, Mum pops up beside me. Where does she keep going? The Better Parent tone was back for round two. “Look at him – he’s forgotten where he parked the car,” she noted as Dad walked up to the wrong car twice in a row. She starts to cackle at her comment. Ahead of us, Dad – almost sensing this – puffs up his chest, as if further filling the space he occupies make up for any attacks on his masculinity. How do they survive alone together? I worry in an onslaught of concern and slight bemusement. It is too much.

The small Miramar restaurant is quiet when we arrive. A calm quiet, unlike the weighted silence underlying the suspiciously casual conversation between Mum, Dad and I. I tense. We sit down and spend several minutes scanning the menus. I can’t look at the prices – a full course meal and wine for me alone would be my rent for the week. Dad orders wine and actually checks if I am okay with his choice. I shrug. What opinion can I have when my wine choices typically taste like the $7.99 they cost? “Well, that’s done; we can go now!” I joke after the long process of ordering. I have to laugh loudly because neither parent joins me. “Loulou ...” Oh no. It is that tone. The you-and-your-future tone (which actually is the you-and-the-future-we’ve-prescribed-for-you tone). The underlying, weighted silence is about to be broken. “We watched a great film about a LAWYER the other day,” Mum comments. Smiles all around the table. “Oh, well you know how much I love films,” I reply. Mum frowns and passes the ball to Dad. Parent teamwork – there’s no way I can win. I will have to play it out. “I was working with some great LAWYERS – the bill was exuberant! Ha ha. Money. Jobs that earn money,” Dad adds. I smile more. “I’ve been thinking a lot about writing recently,” I reply. “What do you think about that? Me becoming a writer?” Mum’s hands clench. Dad’s smile remains but his eyes go a flat grey. “Actually, I’m also really interested in art and –” The sirens go off – they have the same sirens for whenever I mention my friends who are trying to make it as musicians and parties that may or may not involve cannabis.

“We just want you to be happy ...” Dad cuts me off.

“Well, don’t you want me to be doing something I love then?”

“Yes, of course. Money isn’t everything – ”

“... But?”

“But you need to survive. Ha ha. Pursuing Law doesn’t mean you have to neglect your interests in social causes, or writing, or art!” Mum exclaims.

“Also, can’t you just fall in love with an accounting student?” Dad chips in, excited by the moment.

They had done it. They had breached the parent taboo subjects: work and love. I could see the instant guilt in their eyes – they knew that I knew what they had done, but they couldn’t help themselves. During many nights of pillow talk before I returned home, my parents would have identified these issues about My Future and decided to bring it up at an appropriate time. I know my first night home wouldn’t have been that time but there’s the desire of self-control and the actual follow through of that when the time comes. Also, they’re my parents. “I’m 22 years old, I’m 22 years old,” I whisper under my breath. “Who wants dessert!” Dad’s voice interrupts my mantra. Oh my gosh, I do. I want dessert. I am child. I am always going to be their child. “Yes,” I say weakly.

Despite the turbulent start, the next week at my parent’s apartment is great. When everyone is out, I pee with the toilet door open. In the morning, I make myself espressos and eat my dad’s coveted muesli mix. I even add yoghurt AND Nutella to it. Their food is MY food. I sit by the heater until my cheeks are pink. I read. I work. I nap. In the evenings, we sit around the table and drink (good) wine. Dad makes Mum and I chai tea after dinner. We’re functioning. We’re a team. I’m lost in the Honeymoon Period of returning home.

But, too soon, eccentricities start to break through the warm, fattening illusion. One night, while Dad and I take plates into the kitchen after dinner, Mum corners us with an accusing look in her eyes. “SOMEBODY has left a peanut butter mark on the couch.” Dad and I look at each other, neither of us reply because it could have been either of us. We try, but in the end we’re both like that – we’re Food Spillers. “I’m going to be frank with you, it looked more like a peanut butter poo.” A scream of laughter rolls through me. Why is the word “poo” so great? I’m caught off guard and Mum is spurred on by my reaction. She hears my laughter and sees it as another opportunity to reach for that Better Parent status. “You know how your FATHER leaves apple cores around the house? Well, the other day, I finally felt it was MY MOMENT to rebel.” I looked at Dad; he looked at me. “Yes,” Mum replies. “I threw an almond out the window.” What. I just … I cannot comprehend the moment. All I can do is rush to my computer to tweet about it.

Moments later, I relay the tweet to Mum and her face crunches up with such joy at her own joke that she almost chokes. “There’s more to it than that,” she says once she has contained herself. “I’ve now started throwing apple cores too.” Again, I don’t understand what’s going on and why she has started doing this. I’m at a loss. Do my parents need help? Can apple cores falling from three stories up kill people? The rush of questions are interrupted when Dad passes me a cup of tea to deliver to Mum, who is somehow back in the lounge already in a deep conversation on her cellphone. She moves quickly – too quickly. It’s unnerving. As I pass the tea to her she gestures dramatically and, to my horror, the hot, brown liquid flies everywhere. I freeze. If it was me I would be severely punished. But, no, I tell myself, this was clearly Mum’s fault. She cackles wildly on the phone. “I’ve just spilled tea, EVERYWHERE!” she laughs to her friend, pauses, then adds: “No, don’t worry my slave is cleaning it up ...” I huff loudly. “Oh she wouldn’t like me saying that.” In that moment, I realise my mum is Lucille from Arrested Development. Who does that make me? Terrified of becoming the Buster type, I quietly back away from the lounge and retreat to my bedroom (read: the study with a bed in it because my parents have moved on and who am I even?).

But it’s not just my parents’ quirks that cause the Honeymoon Period to evaporate. I am also a – or, rather, the – problem. Forget anti-aging creams, just return to your parents’ home – it takes years off. Too many. I quickly become 16 again, but, for me, being 16 is no John Hughes movie. One afternoon, two weeks after I’ve returned home, I send Dad a text asking him to pick up a particular face wash while he’s at the supermarket. My instructions are clear: I list the brand name, the colour, the shape. Then I wait. I get strangely excited about replenishing stocks – it’s a moment of unspeakable satisfaction when you start again on a new bottle of the same product you have been using for three years in a row. When I hear his keys turning in the apartment door, I run to him. He smiles broadly. “Hello, pumpkin!” No, not you - I think - it’s the supermarket bags that I’m here for. But as I reach down to take the shopping from him my heart plummets. He’s got the wrong face wash. I let out a high-pitched sound. Yes, I squealed. The fact that Dad actually tried makes me feel instantly guilty for this reaction, which – logically – only makes me angrier. I can’t look him in the eyes. I am betrayed. “What’s wrong!?” Dad exclaims. He doesn’t get me. No one here gets me. Thud. The plastic bag with the face wash falls to the ground. I am alone in this crazy world. I return to my study-turned-half-hearted-bedroom. I need time.

My next mistake nearly destroys the family. A few nights later, during dinner, we get onto the conversation of relationships. It’s a risky subject with parents: they want (financial) security, anyone will do; you want love, no one’s good enough. You feel four years old when you’re five-and-a-half times that (though, seriously, Dad refuses to accept my age and genuinely thought I wouldn’t be able to get into a R18 gig – it was a confusing moment). Then, all of a sudden, when I thought I was being reflective, I comment about a past girlfriend of Dad’s who called him up several years after they broke up begging for him back. It turns out that was told to me in Father-Daughter confidence. Mum didn’t know. Her eyes widen. “This confirms EVERYTHING,” Mum informs Dad. Dad looks at me, then at Mum. I drop my phone in shock. “That was a stupid thing to do,” Dad comments. “One of many,” Mum replies, looking at him. “It was 23 years ago, let it go.” I am stuck in the corner of the room that somehow doesn’t have an exit except the window and we’re on the third floor. The tension is high. In a crazy moment I drop to the ground and begin to quietly crawl towards the door. It’s all I can think of. My parents accept my gesture. I’m out again. I skulk off to my room.

A week before I leave again (it was a month at home in between university and going overseas) the Life Coach comes to stay. She’s a family friend and she coaches mostly $500,000-a-year Chief Executives. On the final night of her stay with us, she returns to the apartment and engages me in a conversation about my journey. Suddenly, everything is turned around. I know who I am, sort of! I am Dorothy in Oz. I am Alice in Wonderland. Home is finding myself – and it’s been there all along. “Yes,” I think as the Life Coach talks me through career choices and lifestyles in front of my parents. She jokes that it’s new age counselling – bring your parents to the room. But still I can’t stop thinking “yes” at everything she says. My parents nod along too. Then the next day is the day before I leave again. Mum and I find ourselves engaged deep in conversation. I am on her level. We are friends. We’re a team again. This is it – this is what it feels like to be a grown up. “It was great talking to your friend, the Life Coach, last night,” I tell Mum as we walk along Oriental Parade, clutching our takeaway flat whites. “Yes, she had so many good things to say!” Friendship – Mum and I are on that boat and soaring through the sea. “What stuck with you, Loulou?” Mum asks. “Well, just to be 22.” The moment is profound. The wise words sit in front of us. Maybe I could stay? I could do this. I eagerly wait for Mum’s analysis of my lesson. I look over to her. Her expression is thoughtful. “B22,” she utters. “Yes?!” “What vitamin is that?”