Kamila Sobotka

When I told my parents I was moving out, the silence at the table was suffocating. My father’s hands, usually poised and steady, tightened around his coffee cup. My mother looked down at her lap, her lips moving as if in silent prayer. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the weight of their disappointment pinned me to my chair. It was like watching a familiar script unfold, one where my lines no longer felt true.

I didn’t tell them much about my new roommate, just that she was a friend from work, 15 years older, and had a spare room in her flat across Prague, Czech Republic. The mention of her age was like tossing a match into dry grass. My father muttered something about "immoral influences," and my mother just stared at the cross on the wall. I didn’t have the energy to explain that she was the first person in years who made me feel seen, who didn’t try to mold me into someone I wasn’t.

My younger brother came home late that evening, smelling like cigarettes and cheap cologne. He nodded at me, grabbed a sandwich, and disappeared into his room without a word. I envied him in that moment—his ability to detach so completely. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe he’d just mastered the art of not caring. I wasn’t there yet. I still cared enough to hate the way my father’s profession made me feel like a walking contradiction, like I had to apologize for the life I wanted.

I’m nineteen, and I’ve spent most of those years in Prague trying to reconcile the person I am with the expectations laid out for me like scripture. The move isn’t about rebellion; it’s survival. My friend—a woman who listens more than she speaks and doesn’t flinch at my doubts—feels like a lifeline. She doesn’t push or preach. She just exists, quietly showing me what stability looks like.

Maybe leaving will create space for something new between my parents and me. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, I’m ready to stop apologizing for wanting something different.