My mom moved last year from the four-bedroom, two-story Victorian she’d shared with my dad for twenty years to a cozy bungalow outside Grand Rapids. She no longer needed all the space, living alone, and the upkeep was a hassle to manage on her own. I sent her Zillow ads, arranged a real-estate agent, and gifted her the down payment, while my brother, Derek, did the legwork on the ground. I was filming in New Zealand and couldn’t get away, but I wanted to do what I could to take care of her from afar.

Was I also trying to avoid confronting and subsequently packing up two decades of brittle history?

Probably.

I will admit to thinking the timing was convenient until a few weeks ago, when I showed up, the shame-faced prodigal son, on my mom’s doorstep, needing a place to crash while I got settled in for my new starring role in a reality show.

Paul Riggs will shit a brick when he hears. I’m almost sad I won’t get to see it.

At any rate, I wasn’t exactly disappointed to learn her spare bedroom was full of enough exercise equipment to supply a gym. On the plus side, she’s healthier than she’s been in years. On the plus-plus side, I had to sleep on the couch. Which I did, happily, while coordinating with my old college roommate, Kevin, to find a rental in Le Croix, Michigan.

Classic Cameron Riggs. Make sure your exit strategy is in place at all times.

To be fair, I was raised by my mom. She was the one who lived with me in L.A. during filming for the years I spent on The World According to Jackson, and we’ve always been close. It’s not that I want to be away from her so much as I need to escape the memories of him. Everywhere I look in this fucking (charming) house, he’s there. His eyes follow me from every photo frame; his disapproval follows me from every trophy and yearbook, and the taxidermized deer head that bears his and my brother’s names.

My mom missed the memo that said when you divorce your husband of twenty-five years, you’re supposed to sell all their belongings in a yard sale.

Noticeably absent are any carefully clipped-out paraphernalia from my six years at National Geographic. I’ll just assume my dad took those with him when he left. He probably wanted them close by so he can stare at them every day with pride in his cold heart.

It almost makes one think they shouldn’t choose their career based on their jackass parent’s wishes—as if they should stick to what (and who) makes them happy and say fuck all to the rest. Or at least it would make one think, if that line of thinking wasn’t a one-way ticket into existential crisis.