With my mom attempting to sink our all-expenses-paid cruise, I went looking for an unlikely ally in my father, who, after his heart attack this past year, shed his workaholic ways and had finally given himself permission to speak the word “vacation.” Not that he’s actually taken one, but at least now it was in his vocabulary. The thing is, he and Mom had been talking forever about going somewhere, but whenever it came up, it was like, “Where do you want to go?” “I don’t know, where do you wanna go?” I think the fear is that someone’s going to suggest visiting relatives in Italy who we don’t know but feel some genetic guilt about.

I presented the invitation to my father later that afternoon. He was out back tending to our yard. A few months ago, I killed all the plants in the yard and half the plants in the neighborhood in a tragic gardening accident. His doctor suggested he turn our dead yard into a Zen garden to help him relax. So now our backyard is all volcanic rocks, bonsai, and sand that gets pushed around by a rake. It’s really cool, for like the first ten seconds.

I crossed the garden, ruining the pattern of sand with my footprints, and handed him the invitation. My dad’s easy to laugh but slow to smile, so I know this smile is genuine.

“Well,” he says, patting his newly slimmed waistline. “I guess I’m gonna need a new bathing suit!”

To which I reply, “Mom says we’re not going.”

Dad’s smile fades, and he hands me back the invitation. “Well, it was a nice idea.”

“But—”

“No buts. Your mother and I have an agreement: We don’t go anywhere as a family unless we both agree to it.”

In the past, this has served our family well, on account of the time Mom wanted to take a walking tour of Amish covered bridges and the time that dad wanted to follow Bruce Springsteen on a six-city tour. These are examples of what we call “midlife crisis,” which is when parents go temporarily insane because they realize how boring prime-time TV has gotten, and a crisis at least makes things interesting.

“The Caribbean’s too humid anyway,” Dad says, and returns to his raking. Watching him reminds me that things have not been normal in our home—and by normal, I mean loud. See, one thing you need to know about my parents is that they love yelling at each other. Even when they’re expressing affection, they do it at a volume that can bring down enemy aircraft. “Whadaya mean you love me? I love you more! What are you gonna do about it, ha?” But ever since my dad’s heart attack six months ago, it’s all been daisies and sunshine. Any conversation that might raise blood pressure is avoided like the plague.