Give Me a Break

Living with my disabilities was one thing, but to still be living at home with my parents? Ugh

- AMY BARTA

I OPENED MY EYES that first morning in my new apartment, half expecting to hear jostling around the house. Nothing. No mom cooking breakfast down the hall. No dad powering up the leaf blower outside the window. No nieces and nephews running across the floors. Just me, myself and I. Alone. This is perfect, I thought.

I was 31 and finally living on my own. My own schedule. My own rules. My own life. I wanted to strike out and pursue my dream of becoming a writer. Maybe not a world-traveling writer—the way I’d imagined when I was younger—but at least independent. My parents didn’t understand, so I’d left without filling them in on my decision.

I stayed in bed a while longer, savoring the silence. It had taken me a long time to get here. In July 1997, at age 13, I’d been diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia. My parents and older sisters were behind me through four merciless relapses and eight years of brutal treatment, including chemo and radiation.

The treatments left me with a slew of side effects, but by the grace of God, I was able to graduate, not only from high school but also from the University of Michigan. After college, I’d contented myself with staying home, sharing an address with the people who raised and loved me.