Because I’m better at cleaning stuff, I chose to clean up the dishes. There were piles of dirty plates, used glasses and greasy pots. That day marked the 7th day since my grandmother passed away. We had to rush back to my hometown to attend some sort of ritual and feast night for her.
There were a lot of people there and it made me uncomfortable. People seemed to know each other, but I did not recognize most of them. They talked bout of random stuff- someone’s daughter relationship status, increase in fuel prices and oil, political demands, how to swing better at night ( direct translation) and many more. I tried my best to stay silent. Seriously, I did not want to join the conversation.
My mom and my aunt ( I just knew her) were sitting approximate to me. The aunt has solemn face and extremely calm, she told my mom that her daughter is a first year dentist student and bla bla bla bla.
” My daughter cried last night. Her denture prototype is rejected by the doctor. She could not stand it. I’m afraid she could not pull herself together. Did your daughter complain a lot when she was studying medicine?” my aunt asked.
I held my breath. It took few seconds for my mother to respond.
“No. Not even once”, my mom answered.
It is the truth. I never share my broken side with my family. I was raised to believe I am enough to support myself, I am capable to swallow my own sorrow and pain. I will be responsible for everything that I’ve done, even if life had been riding roughshod over me.
I did interact with mom a lot when I was in university, but we usually discuss random stuff- never about my problems. Like my mom said, not even once.
It makes me wonder,
“Would I want my daughter to do the same?”