Since childhood, I grew up in an environment of complete control and distrust.
I still can't understand what made my parents treat me and my older brother so harshly. We both did well in school, and I was actively involved in extracurricular activities.
If something happened at home, it was my brother and I who were to blame. No one wanted to look into it, we were always punished. It hurt me especially when a shelf fell down, which my father had literally hung with his spit and then blamed me – that my friends and I were going crazy and knocked it down.
As soon as the opportunity arose to leave home and go to college in another city, I did so. Over twenty years later, I graduated and got married. Now our son Sebastian is in his last year of college.
The main principle in our home is mutual trust. Even if my son makes a mistake, he always comes to me first: he knows that I will not blame him uncritically, but will solve everything. My father is no longer alive, but my mother visits us quite often. I am happy to see her. The traumas from childhood have long since been forgotten, and my mother is at an age when she often behaves like a child herself – she needs care and understanding.
It was only recently that I began to notice that she did not seem to be happy that everything was going well with us. I started telling her something about my job, and she asked me:
-But just in case, you're looking for a new job?
-Why? I'm happy here – I answered.
-You work today, and tomorrow you'll be fired – my mom says, pursing her lips.
-But somehow you've been working in the same place for over thirty years? – I ask sarcastically.
-I'm not you, that's another matter – she replies. And I don't even want to know what she means by that! You can hear that distrust in her voice.
Mom likes to clean our apartment. Of course I refuse every time, I don't let her vacuum or mop the floor, and dusting and putting things away is not that hard.
In the morning I left her a pile of ironed laundry and we all went about our business. When I came back in the evening, I found my mother in the kitchen. She was sitting there with a serious, sad face, and on the table in front of her was an open quarter of vodka.
-What's this? – I asked tiredly.
-I found a bottle, it was hidden on the mezzanine. I knew your Sebuś drinks in secret from you! – my mother laughed.
I went to the kitchen, took the bottle and put it in the fridge. I was the one who bought a small bottle instead of alcohol to wipe the injection site – last year I gave Sebastian injections when he had a sore throat.
-You've lived your whole life and you don't understand that a bottle won't stay with a drinker for long, he won't drink it sip by sip! – I replied with a smile.
– And I saw indecent magazines under his bed! – my mother snapped.
– And what were you looking for under your grandson's bed?? – I was surprised.
– I know how kids are these days. He tells you one thing and he's probably smoking and drinking around the corner! – my son's grandmother complained. Only he's an athlete and I know he doesn't smoke.
– Just because he wasn't caught doesn't mean he doesn't smoke – my mother insisted. What kind of person is she? Why does she always have to suspect the worst in the people she loves?
I've never been disappointed in my mom, but I can't remember her ever complimenting me on anything. She can't be happy herself, so she ruins everyone else's mood! It seems to me that only a dirty fact from our lives or a real scandal involving her grandson would bring her joy. Then she'd happily exclaim, “I told you so!” What's wrong with her?
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