The new lord of the manor

The author is talking about his son not leaving home

Our son isn’t going to be moving out of home, after all, more’s the pity. When he shared the news of his departure, it didn’t foment the rebellion he had probably anticipated. As a lawyer, he should have read the signs better. For years, his mother and I had ben encouraging him to become less dependent on his parents (even our club had refused to acknowledge him as one), offering to assist him in buying or leasing property suitable for a young man about town. But either because he was too lazy, or too comfortable, he had deplored the idea. When his turnaround failed to provoke hand-wringing at home, he must have rethought his plans. 

It’s true, we didn’t try very hard to hide our glee. After all, his departure would have opened up more real estate for us in the house. Plans to utilise his share of the space were more avidly discussed than might have been warranted in his presence. That loss of decorum probably lost us the space and our freedom from the burdens of daily parenting. His announcement had come with a heavy calendar of travelling for me. My log of outgoing calls reveals that I called him from Chennai to ask whether he’d found a place for himself yet; from Bengaluru to ask whether he’d at least be gone by the end of the month; from Hyderabad to ask if he needed help finding a broker; from Pune to suggest the name of a moving company; and from Mumbai to ask why he was taking such a long time about it. 

“I’m not leaving,” he said, when I finally came back from my exhaustive travels, making me feel a little bit peeved. Bad news should not be broken suddenly, it needs to be announced gently. “It’s all right if you want to take a little longer,” I assured him, “Let’s increase our budget for your property search.” “I can’t just leave you and go,” my son responded straight-faced, you’re not getting any younger and need looking after.” For his benefit, I counted the staff we had to take care of us, but he was unmoved. “They aren’t family,” he argued, “At your age you need me.” 

At least it resolved the fights at home about who would lay claim to his room. My daughter had plans to convert it into a boudoir complete with walk-in wardrobes and a personal gym. My parents had hinted about a permanent guest room they might use. My wife, who is a woman of action, had already begun shifting in suitcases of her excess stuff, and was most annoyed about being unceremoniously thwarted. “Do you know,” she said to me, “I can’t think of anyone whose grown-up children stay at home. What must people say of me behind my back?”

We now stare at a long winter where, my wife tells me, we will soon be put to task taking care of our son’s progeny, and before you know it, their heirs. “It’s our house,” I pointed out to her, but she waved the statement away with a weak wave of her hand. Just how right she was became clear that evening when the cook, who had ignored my request for a cup of tea, served him, first, a chilled cold coffee concoction, then a home-made pizza, and, finally, a single malt on the rocks purloined from my secret stash, while I made do with humbler spirits. The lord of the manor, clearly, isn’t.