Life with a phantom partner

Our son is moving out, but he has his conditions

Finally, I suspect, my son may have a girlfriend. Having failed for years to get him to move out of the house to set up an independent establishment of his own, it came as a surprise when he asked if it was all right if he moved out for a year “to live a bachelor’s life”. “What’s her name?” his mother wanted to know. “It’s okay,” I assured him, “if you like her, we’ll be happy to meet her.” Whether he didn’t want the pressure, or because he was being defensive, he denied a relationship, though if the whispered conversations over his mobile, when he keeps moving out of hearing range, is any indication, he seems to have been baited hook, line and sinker. 

“Moving out” — still under discussion — comes with a caveat. He will continue to exercise rights over “his room” at home, where he will not hand over claims to his cupboards, bed, the contents of the room or its usage. He will continue to come home for sleepovers, meals, gym protein mixes and shakes. Nor will we see too little of him, as he’d like the following as part of his non-negotiable rights as a non-resident occupant of the house: A weekly laundry turnaround service; home-cooked lunch that he will pick up en route to work; the right to have the dinner of his choice cooked when he doesn’t feel like ordering from takeaways (“Of course I won’t cook,” he declared); housekeeping services for when he is too tired, or lazy, to let in his own help; the staff to buy and stock his kitchen with groceries and his bathroom with toiletries. 

If that wasn’t enough, he’s provided us a list of things he wants us to finance, because what’s the point of moving out if he can’t spend his money on the things of his choice rather than the “basics of life”. Our list of spends on his lifestyle, therefore, includes a wall-to-wall sized television, a refrigerator, an air-conditioner (he won’t agree to shift the one that’s currently installed in his bedroom), all kitchen appliances and accompanying crockery and cutlery (no, he won’t settle for the excess of plates and spoons we’ve been storing at home for just such exigencies), bedroom and living room furniture, the necessary linen, carpets and upholstery — basically, a trousseau that his mother has been saving for his sister but on which he’s laying a claim by moving out first. 

Nor is that all. As behooving of a lawyer, he’s “agreed” to split the bar between himself and me, putting his name on my fastidiously collected single malts that I’ve been saving for special occasions, leaving the run-of-the-mill scotches for me, purloining cases of wine, and indicating his preference for the rarer spirits collected from around the world. Along with the alcohol he’s apportioned for himself are the accessories, the cut glass decanters and glasses, the wine carafes and coolers — all the accouterments to keep him in good cheer. “Don’t you want your son to enjoy the good things of life?” he asked. It’s tough to argue with that.

But the whole idea of moving out seems premature. For someone who can’t sleep in an unmade bed but has never learned to make his own, the perils of housekeeping loom ominously. “Let’s test his resolve,” I told my wife, “by letting him survive sans house help right here.” We’ll know soon enough whether the nest is emptying, or filling up, with a currently phantom partner.