“You are so ideal,” she said, shaking her head. Frustrated. “If you’re at my age, you wouldn’t think so.”
Because she’s at your age, I thought, shouldn’t she have known better?
“You’re lucky you’re protected. You’re lucky you’ve gotten yourself out of the cycle with the job assurance and security, and the higher education. But you are one out of hundreds, thousands – one out of ninety-nine others who struggle having to make ends meet. They’ve to ride this vicious cycle with little assurance if they’ll ever break it or get out of it. You’ve never had to make a decision in a situation that demands you to decide at that moment, where you’ve to jump head first and learn to fly on the way down. You are one. There are ninety-nine others to you, the only one.”
Her eyebrows furrowed, exasperated. Angry. Frustrated.
I turned my head away, shamed. Angry. Frustrated.
This house is poison, and everyone just ends up broken.
I don’t know why this here, this house, this place – why it is a time capsule where the past catches up every fucking time.
“When you have very little faith in people,” she mulled, as if begging me to understand, “it breaks people.”
“How do you think she will react to the truth being kept from her?” I demanded in response. “The number one rule, the one we know so well. The one we abide by all this while. When you live under someone’s roof, the rules of the house apply. Of all people, we should know this. Us. How do you think she would feel? It breaks her.”
“If she gets into trouble, I will also be the one who is responsible,” she wrote in her response this morning. “Thank you for your concerns.”
Two sentences; concise. What isn’t said aloud is more glaring than seventeen mere words.
My lack of concern you mean, I retorted back. How did we turn out this way, no longer on the same sides?
This house is fucking poison. Welcome fucking home.