My Mom Is My Roommate

When my dad and I packed up my Cambridge apartment in August 2020, I assumed my move back home would be temporary. Six months into the pandemic, I was working much less, and money was tight. I had moved from their house into my own place in November 2017, but when COVID started I’d been staying with my mom and dad more and more. I liked hanging out with them, and I had discovered that living by myself was lonely. By the time summer came around, it just seemed smarter to hunker down and ride out the nightmare under the same roof. Plus, I really missed the cats.

For the next 11 months, I was grateful not only to have my mom and dad with me, but to have the chance to get to know them as fellow adults. Most nights, my dad and I would go for a long walk, and within weeks our chats had morphed from roasting relatives to big conversations about our childhoods, the way time had changed us, and what we were looking forward to once the world opened up again. I confessed to my dad that I really liked living with him and my mom, and he told me I could stay as long as I wanted—forever, even. I wasn’t sure if I’d take him up on that offer, but I was so grateful I was somewhere I felt safe and loved.

My dad died in July of 2021. His passing was sudden and unexpected, and it devastated me and my mom. She and I had always been close, but the recent dynamic I’d forged with my dad was new. I felt robbed and untethered. I fell asleep that night next to my mom and woke up about two hours later. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” I said to her, crying. Her answer was simple: “We’ll do it together.”

Read more: The Book That Helped Me Understand My Mother

To be honest, there was never really a choice. I couldn’t see a future where I left my mom behind to move back into a one-bedroom apartment that I knew from experience would never quite feel like home. I also didn’t want to leave the only other person fluent in our collective grief (which only got bigger after my mom’s dad and brother died over the next seven months). For so long, I’d equated adulthood with becoming more independent, but I also conflated the idea of independence with isolation. One of the biggest lessons I’d learned over the first half of my thirties was the necessity of community and of not having to go it alone. Thus, it was time to put that lesson into action: My mom and I were now a package deal.

The shift from daughter-at-home-for-a-while to grown-up roommates was an easy one. We like the same type of furniture, watch the same types of TV shows, and have always respected each other’s space (especially since I’m an only child and have long participated in a timeless endeavour: being quiet at home). My mom doesn’t drive, so I take her to work, to her appointments, and to her weekly choir practices. We compromise on groceries, and take turns paying for takeout. I make plans when I want, but I still tell her where I’m going because we both champion common courtesy (and we both watch Dateline). I tell her when I miss my dad, and she does the same. We’re open, honest, and we’ve agreed that some topics will never be broached because it’s none of my business. (Read: I know she and my dad conceived me, but I never need to know the details.) Out of respect and close proximity to her bedroom, I have told her I will never bring a guy home—and after 38 years with my dad, she has assured me that she will never date again. We’ve reached an understanding.

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I liken us to Sophia and Dorothy; two of the four Golden Girls. We’ve also always been close: my mom went into labour with me on her 28th birthday, and because I have always been a stubborn nightmare, I was born an hour-and-a-half into the following day (because I deserve my own date, thank you). As a chaotic youth, she was my anchor, providing logic when I had none or a hug when it was desperately needed. So, as a slightly less chaotic adult, I’ve tried to step up. Recently, we consolidated our debts and divided up the bills. When she works from home as a bookkeeper at night, I catch up on school or pieces for work. We’ve committed to finding happiness amidst the worst-case scenario. We’ve promised to have each other’s backs.

Recently, I was telling a friend about living with my mom, and threw in the closer, “And if I meet a guy who’s actually worth my time, he’ll just have to deal with it!” She looked horrified: “He won’t have to deal with it, he should be so lucky!” I paused for a moment before it sunk in. My mom and I are lucky to have each other; to be able to wade through the grief monsoon under the same roof. Living with her is certainly not something I deal with. Frankly, it’s a privilege to have her with me. To do it together.