I no longer have a place at the kids’ table; my son now occupies that space. I am a mother, homeowner, have my BS, but am still not qualified to sit at the adult table. Why is it then, that while I am only qualified to be in this awkward limbo, I am forced to suffer a strange and uncomfortable sharing of information?

I do not need intimate details of aunt and uncle infidelity and divorce. I do not wish to hear unemployment histories and financial difficulties. I am not “old enough” to join them, yet they seek me out. I know it is not for my wisdom – I have not lived as long as they have or seen as much. I know it is only for my sympathy. Unfortunately, there are many times when I do not wish to give it.

I know more things about certain people than I think I should know. How can I be expected to be a good member of the younger generation when I have these secrets I need to keep? If I cannot be at the adult table, then please, LEAVE ME OUT. Let me stay in limbo; playing with the kids and keeping my rose colored glasses as far as pasts and presents of the adults are concerned.

I am so tired of not telling one person this, another person that, etc. More nights than not, I cry. Most of those nights, it is not for myself or my own problems, but something I have been told and cannot discuss to get off my chest. I cannot fix everything, yet I feel this overwhelming compulsion to do so and it is debilitating to feel this way and know that there is nothing I can do.

No more secrets. No more confessions. I am done.