sad father's day
My father is a real estate agent. Back when I was still his prized possession, before I learned that I could scare him by becoming exactly like him, he used to bring me along to property viewings. While he entertained his clients, I would always disappear into the kitchen. The kitchen was my favourite place. Every time we visited a house, I played house. I was the mother, I was the father, and I was the daughter. These kitchens, unlike the one we had at home, were always quiet. As the mother, I imagined my father's arm wrapped around her waist, teasing her until she laughed, not shouting profanities across the room. As the daughter, I sat at the dining table watching them, convinced that in this version of my life, my parents were in love. It was easier to believe in this imagined family than the one waiting for me back home. My oldest friend was imagination. It worked overtime to protect me. It made sure that although I couldn't have a good family in reality, I could have one ...
