You said last Christmas, “Mom, you can’t live in a van. You’re not a twenty-two-year-old influencer with a trust fund.” First of all, I have a 401(k), not a trust fund. Second, this isn’t a van in the sense you’re thinking. It’s a mobile micro-studio. Here’s what I have:
And Bettie, here’s the part I think you’ll understand: entertainment. You always said I watched too much TV. I’m here to tell you: you were wrong. I didn’t watch enough. I watched what your father wanted to watch. I watched the news until my soul curdled. I watched home renovation shows that made me feel inadequate about the carpet in the hallway. Now? I watch silent French films at 2 AM. I listen to podcasts about Soviet history. I play Stardew Valley on a handheld gaming laptop because a nice boy named Aiden at Best Buy said it would “calm my nervous system.” He was right.
Let me say the keyword again, because I know how SEO works (yes, I Googled it): Bettie, this is your mother’s last resort portable lifestyle and entertainment.
Why do those words go together? Because entertainment is no longer something that happens to you on a fixed screen in a fixed room at a fixed time. Entertainment is now:
Last week, I watched Casablanca while cooking pasta in a state park in New Mexico. The stars came out right as Bogie said, “We’ll always have Paris.” I cried. Then I had a glass of boxed wine (don’t judge—boxed wine is just wine that admits it’s camping). Then I called you. You didn’t answer. You were probably at book club. That’s fine. I left a voicemail.
That voicemail is why you’re reading this, isn’t it? bettie bondage this is your mothers last resort portable
For the first three months after your father died, I didn’t watch or listen to anything. I sat in silence. I thought that was grief. It was actually self-punishment. Now I understand: stories are how we stay human. Music is how we stay soft. Laughing at a ridiculous comedy special while eating instant ramen at a rest stop is how we stay alive.
I have a “Portable Panic Playlist” on Spotify. It’s 47 songs long. It includes ABBA, Johnny Cash, Lizzo, and an inexplicable amount of 80s power ballads. When the loneliness hits—and it does, Bettie, it does—I put on headphones and let “Total Eclipse of the Heart” drown out the silence.
I sold the dining room table. I gave away the china. I donated twenty-seven boxes of books to the library. I kept: one cast-iron skillet, one good knife, three cashmere sweaters, your father’s wedding ring (around my neck), and a photograph of you at age six holding a frog. Everything else, Bettie, was a weight. You don’t realize how heavy a house is until you leave it.
I know you think this is a cry for help. It’s not. It’s a blueprint. And because I love you—even when you roll your eyes—I’m going to give you the step-by-step guide your mother used to turn grief into a mobile home.
Bettie, this is your mother’s last resort. I need you to hear me: I am not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing this because the alternative was sitting in that blue house, watching the mail come, waiting for a phone call that wouldn’t come because your father is dead and you have your own life. You said last Christmas, “Mom, you can’t live in a van
You have a family. A career. A Peloton. I have a van and a portable projector and a stubborn refusal to become a ghost before I’m dead.
I know you worry. I know you told your therapist that you feel “responsible” for me. Unsubscribe from that feeling, honey. I raised you to be independent. Now let me demonstrate.
Here’s what I propose: Next month, I’ll be in Flagstaff. I have a spot reserved at a KOA with real showers and a pool. Come for a weekend. No husband, no kids, no work phone. Just you and me and a portable DVD player loaded with every movie we used to watch when you were home sick from school. I’ll make my famous popcorn (coconut oil, extra salt). We’ll sleep under a real comforter in the van. And in the morning, we’ll watch the sunrise hit the San Francisco Peaks while I make pour-over coffee from a portable grinder.
You’ll see. It’s not sad. It’s not a last resort in the way you think.
It’s a resort. It’s just portable.
When your father passed, everyone said the same empty words: “Take it one day at a time.” “He’s in a better place.” “You’re so strong.” What they didn’t say was that the house would feel like a museum of his breathing—the dent in the couch, the smell of Old Spice in the bathroom towels, the way the garage door still groaned like his laugh. I couldn’t breathe in there, Bettie. I started sleeping in the guest room. Then on the couch. Then in the car.
That’s when I realized: the house wasn’t a home anymore. It was a mausoleum with a mortgage.
Your mother’s last resort isn’t a nursing home, Bettie. It’s not an assisted living facility with bingo nights and pudding cups. It’s not moving in with you and your husband (bless his heart, but he uses my good scissors on cardboard). No. The last resort is this: a fully portable lifestyle where entertainment is whatever I want, wherever I want, however I want.
Let me break this down for you, because I know you’re a list-maker.