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On being level-headed and good. On being able to take care of not only myself but also my parents when they needed it.
I mean, they took care of me, didn’t they?
So it was only fair that I took care of them as well. Because that’s what a family does. We take care of each other and we put them above our needs.
So then how did this happen?
How did it happen that my parents can barely look at me? Let alone talk to me.
I’m home for the weekend and we’re all sitting at the dining table, eating dinner. It feels like those couple of years when my dad was laid up and everything in our house was somber and depressing.
There’s very little conversation and each of us simply keeps our eyes on our plate. There’s an occasional clink of silverware, squeak of the chair, clearing of a throat but not much else.
It’s me.
I did that.
My actions from two years ago took whatever little joy my parents had and left them like this, all strained and stressed out. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better when I’m not around. I wonder if my mom and dad at least talk to each other if not to me.
As it is, no one is talking to anyone right now.
And like always, I can’t bear it.
I can’t help but try to fix it. Try to fill it with something,anything.
So I glance at my mother and go, “This is very delicious, Mom.”
She looks up — her eyes are as brown as mine; actually I’m a carbon copy of my mother, same coloring, same dirty blonde hair and a petite build — and gives me a nod. “Thanks.”
“New recipe?” I swirl the fork in my spaghetti. “I feel like you did something different with the sauce.”
And it’s delicious as always.
My mother is a wizard in the kitchen, especially with putting something delicious together with just leftovers. And she’d always try to get me interested in cooking and her recipes. I’m not as good as her but I can cook. I also have a discerning palate, thanks to being my mom’s guinea pig.
Which I think she remembers even though she has been mad at me for two years now. Because her eyes sparkle and a small but fond smile appears on her mouth. “I did, yes.”
Encouraged, I smile too. “It’s tart but not really. Like it’s sweet too.”
Her smile grows. “Is it?”
She’d always do that, test me and tease me, and when I’d get it right, she’d look at me all fondly and nod, saying that I was even better than she was at my age.
I nod, scooping up just the sauce with my spoon and tasting it. “It is. It’s so good, Mom. What’d you do?”
She gets a twinkle in her eyes. “Worcestershire sauce and brown sugar.”
“Stop, no. I can’t even say it.”
She chuckles and glances at my dad. “Neither can your dad.”
Who has a smile of his own on his mustached face.
My dad looks like one of those eighties heroes, with sideburns and a thick mustache that curls slightly on the ends. Super dashing and super strong. I love his mustache. My mom does too and I know that’s why he doesn’t get rid of it.
My dad would do anything for my mom.
And it shows in his dark eyes when he looks at her. “Oh, I can.”
