“Your father has misplaced his book,” my mom said, lovingly rolling her eyes, a talent that she seems to have perfected.

“Okay…” I said, confused. “Is this really a family summit situation?”

“It wasn’t so much before you got here,” Aaron said. “I was just passing through.”

“Focus, please,” my dad said again. “I put it right here”—he gestured sharply to the couch—“and now it’s gone.”

“Darling, did you look on the nightstand?” my mom asked.

“Of course I looked on the nightstand,” he said.

“No you didn’t.” Aaron laughed, shaking his head.

“Don’t go poking around in my head, Aaron,” he said, jokingly pointing his finger at Aaron. The frustration that had been there seconds ago seems to have dissipated, his voice light and more like him.

“I’m not!” Aaron put up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s not my fault the truth jumped out.”

My dad threw a pillow at Aaron’s head without lifting a finger and my mom snorted.

“It’s not on the nightstand, I know it’s not,” my dad insisted, his tone taking a sharp turn back to annoyed.

It went on like that for a few more minutes, my dad refusing to look anywhere in the house because he was so certain where he’d left it and convinced that someone must have moved it and my mom gently suggesting different locations until she gave up to go to bed, leaving with a sarcastic comment about looking for it in a vision. All the while, Aaron just squinted at our parents, his eyes and mouth tight, without saying a word.

Writing it all out now, it doesn’t seem that weird or bad but … I don’t know, I just got such a vibe from everyone. Not a good vibe. Even with the moments of lightness, of my dad and Aaron goofing off like they always have, it felt charged.

Maybe we’ve all been living together too long, now transitioning into something more like roommates than parents and kids. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just don’t understand the various ways that three Atypical people communicate, the way they’re inherently connected. I know I’m inherently connected to them too, linked to them through blood and a lifetime of sharing a space, but it feels like I’m missing some fundamental part of what it means to be an Atkinson and nothing I do, no amount of Readit-searching or trashy-book-reading or future-worrying I do will ever be enough to bridge that gap.

09-16-2016, morningwaffles, text post