Chocolate Chip Pancakes in Rented Kitchens

Recently, I suggested to a family that instead of bringing their son home for Thanksgiving, they consider renting an Airbnb. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere without the weight of old memories and triggers. A place where they could just be together without all the noise.

I know that suggestion because I lived it.

After my loved one had been to rehab several times, he told me visiting home wasn't okay for him. Too many triggers. Too many memories. Too overwhelming.

As his mother, I wanted to protect him, to make our home feel safe. But he was right. It wasn't. That didn't take away the sadness. I wanted my family together in our house. I wanted to wake up together, make breakfast, sit around our table. Be normal. But I couldn't have that. So I adapted.

Practically, things were easier. I didn't need to drive three hours to pick him up, three hours back home, and then repeat it all at the end of the weekend. But easier didn't mean it didn't hurt.

So I became the queen of Airbnb.

My email to hosts was simple. I didn't need to give a million details. Just that I was traveling with someone in early recovery and requested no alcohol. Please forego the welcome basket with wine. Please don't leave the previous occupant's beer in the fridge.

Most hosts were accommodating. A few said they couldn't guarantee it, so I found somewhere else. But most understood.

When we arrived at the house, we had a ritual. We'd do a sweep together. Open every cabinet in the kitchen, check the bathrooms, make sure everything was safe.

I remember the first time we did it. Standing in a stranger's kitchen, opening cupboards, wondering what we would do if we found something. I didn't let him move further than my side until everything was checked. It became part of how we started each weekend. Together.

The car rides to the Airbnb were some of the best conversations we had. That first hour or so, no distractions, just the two of us talking. By the time we got there, we'd settled into something that felt like us.

A lot of it was just like home. Putting on a movie. One time early on, I told him to pick anything he wanted. It was some anime about a little girl, maybe a princess in a castle. I'm not really sure. I don't like anime, but it didn't matter. We were together. And I was so tired that fifteen minutes in, I was asleep on the couch. Just like home.

After the third weekend, I got smarter. I kept going to the store and buying the same things. How many little bottles of olive oil can you buy? So I created a go bag. My homemade pancake mix. Maple syrup. Olive oil. Basic spices. Everything I needed to make our mornings feel like ours and the basics of a home cooked dinner. Pancakes are always chocolate chip in my house. I was taking my home tradition with me.

We rented a house across from a lake once. That was really nice. Another time, we found one halfway between New York and Pennsylvania, and extended family came to visit. We went out for lunch, and then he and his cousin were able to hang out at our house. Our temporary house. But it felt like ours.

In Florida, we rented a place for a week. The whole family. I did the same sweep when we arrived, checking cabinets and the fridge. But I missed the sunroom. There was a little kitchenette out there. My loved one found twisted teas.

He told my daughter immediately. She came to me right away. She was scared, but also glad he had come to her. She had caught him with alcohol before. This time was different.

I was angry I had missed them. Embarrassed I hadn't been thorough enough. But I was proud of both of them for the way they handled it.

We kept going back to those Airbnbs. Different lakes, different towns, different kitchens. But always the chocolate chip pancakes. Always the sweep. Always the car ride there.

Leaving was sad. It was nice to have those moments together, and I knew there would be a few weeks until the next one. I was glad we could recreate that time. But the truth is, I was sadder leaving him at sober living than I was packing up the Airbnb.

We weren't avoiding home. We were creating something we could hold onto when home wasn't an option. Those weekends taught us that home wasn't just an address. It was us, together, in a place that felt safe. Even if it was temporary. Even if it hurt to leave.