Someone broke into our house.
Nothing was taken. Still, this happened while I was awake and I heard nothing. I was the first to go downstairs in the morning, and I saw the door to the kitchen, which I had locked a few hours before, widely open.
Someone had moved the freezer to get into the house through the small bathroom window. I mean, to fit through there, you'd have to be a child or emaciated.
And on the freezer was my dad's old hair tonic and rusty lighter. I knew something was definitely wrong, but I asked my mother if she had gone downstairs before me.
Panic.
I had a full-blown panic attack after I told her what I saw. I don't know why I somehow think I'm practically the man the house and I should know exactly what to do in these situations. Or that anyone would take me seriously.
"Dad, what do I do? What do I do?"
I acted like like a little bitch, cried, and told her I was scared. She calmed me down and promised to buy better locks.
What could they have taken? Nothing. We don't have a TV downstairs. Kitchen appliances? No money. No jewelry.
There was a pile of presents under the tree; I had spent a small fortune on that shit. But Christmas morning was fine. They were happy. I got a bag of markers and liquid hand soap. At least someone bothered.
The next night, some guards kept watch in the front of the house till morning. Because, sure, a person who breaks in, takes nothing, and makes no effort to conceal to this, is dying to get back inside the next day. I guess they did this so I we could get some sleep.
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I'm talking to a girl who can take us to the mountains because it's snowing up there. Mom is fixating on coats. Just all outfits, no logistics.
I do not like planning trips.
I don't understand why I'm the only person in this family who knows how to Google things. This is my role, I guess. I get everyone inspired gifts and make airtight itineraries.
This is how my three-tiered trauma cake manifests — extreme nervousness, which is pretty fucking basic. I am nervous about everything. Something awful is going to happen.
Mom asked, "Has anything truly horrible ever happened to us while traveling?"
I said, "No, but how is that an indication of what could happen?"
Then she quoted one of her friends, which she tends to do.
I spent the entire day comparing several travel insurance policies. Yes, I'm going to break my fucking bones. Yes, my flight is going to be fucking delayed — no, cancelled. Yes, I'd like to have my fucking remains transported back to my home country.
And every once in a while, I'd go into her room and tell her about something I'd read.
Uh-huh, uh-huh.
I must be a nightmare to live with.