Dear Fauchon,
The poop patrol.
It had been a solid eighteen days since the last time your mother and I fought according to my daily journal where I also track when we fight. It was a fight like any other where I could’ve approached the entire situation in a better way from the beginning. I have this tendency to try and make your mother to do things my way, which I know is unreasonable. The weird part is I’m not even aware I do it until after the clothes have been thrown onto the floor, your mother is sitting in bed crying into a tissue, and my head is wrapped up in a towel (I don’t know why).
This time was different though because my parents were in town. So while they were having a pleasant (I think) lunch downstairs with a family friend, we were upstairs hurling f-bombs and loud words. I would’ve loved to see a cross section of the apartment and simultaneously watch both events happening.
I half expected my parents to butt in or chime in with their two cents, but they didn’t make a peep. They did the normal thing and promptly left the flat after a quick lunch to go for a five-hour walk. And when they did return, it was just a hush-hush “Hey, is everything okay?” And I really appreciated that.
My parents have gone home today, and it left me with the same sad feeling I get when I leave your mother for a business trip. They were here for thirteen days, which seemed like a long long time the first two days into it, but by the end, as is usually the case, it didn’t feel like enough time.
Perception and awareness can be funny sometimes. One moment, you might think something, and the next moment, everything is turned on its head. Never a dull moment, I suppose.
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