Dear Diary,
Welcome back to Season 3, Episode 1 of my ongoing family drama called"Dust, Baggage & Emotional Damage." This week’s plot twist begins in the city, where my mom and I ventured to reclaim our long-abandoned apartment from layers of dust thick enough to qualify as historical sediment.
But no that wasn’t the problem.
The real descent into chaos began on the return trip. We swung by my aunt’s place, scooped her and her two kids into the car, and made our way back to our third yes, third quaint little town. Still not the problem.
Once we arrived and spilled out of the car like overstuffed luggage, Adrian and I did the noble thing: we hauled the bags. Because In our culture, letting your mom or any elder, really
carry bags is about as socially acceptable as showing up to a wedding in sweatpants.Even if there weren’t cultural expectations, I still wouldn’t let my mom lug around bags heavier than my emotional baggage. And again, still not the problem.
So my mom and aunt were walking in front of me at a pace I can only describe as ‘leisurely museum tour.’ I mean, they weren’t walking, they were gliding. Like they had all the time in the world and possibly a small orchestra playing behind them. I don’t blame them though, once you hit a certain age, speed becomes more of a suggestion than a reality. I, young and foolish, dared to move faster. So I walked ahead, toward the building. Still not the problem .But oh, we’re close now.
You see, the first few floors of our building are taken up by clinics because nothing says “cozy home” like the aroma of medical despair and disinfectant. And of course, the receptionist. Oh, her. The woman is less a receptionist and more a surveillance drone in human form. Every time she sees my mom, she activates some sort of false humility protocol and pretends she wants to “help” when really she just wants to know whether we’re carrying groceries or government secrets.
To avoid becoming her afternoon entertainment, I made the obviously terrible decision to take the stairs. What could go wrong?
Everything, Diary. Everything went wrong.
I was on the first floor, Remi was still on the ground floor right next to the receptionist. I waited for Remi and she caught up. I asked her to grab the key fob from my bag so we could use the elevator like civilized people. But alas, by that point, the rest of the entourage(my family) had already piled into the elevator, so Remi and I nobly continued the journey by stairs.Since we live on the tenth floor, my mom had the elevator stop on the third and she waited for us.Because apparently, my public humiliation needed a proper stage.
This is the point dear diary, is where everything spiraled.
My mom, clearly horrified that I had dared to risk my life walking through the sacred Stairwell of Mild Inconvenience, started yelling at me like I had wandered into an active crime scene. Apparently, once upon a time, a homeless man (or woman (equality!) had briefly taken shelter on one of the floors. He’s kicked out, but my mother’s paranoia lives on, immortal and loud.
I tried to reason with her (rookie mistake). Reasoning was not invited to this conversation.
And here’s where the emotional damage peaks: on the third floor is a small graphic design office. A guy who works there always says hi to me and my sister. He’s not my crush, Diary, but he is a witness to my existence, and I would like to be perceived as something other than a child in the middle of a hallway meltdown. He wasn't even outside, and I was still mortified at the thought he might have heard the shouting. Because oh well
Acoustics are a curse.And my pride was so crushed it looked like it had survived a war zone and honestly, I wasn’t sure I was far behind.
And Diary, I won’t lie I was mad. Not dramatic-mad. Quiet, clenched-jaw mad. But then plot twist.Mom, in her emotionally complex, semi-feral way, offers a peace offering: a crépe and my nickname. Not exactly a UN peace treaty, but we take what we can get.
So please, Diary, if you must judge her... do it gently. She didn’t have a fairytale upbringing. And me? I guess I’m just trying to write a better episode.
Until next time,
Your Exhausted Protagonist