Back in the day, centuries ago, we had this thing where my dad used to come home with fries, sometimes mutura, just enough for one person. Other times he would come with an apple, he was spontaneous like that.
We used to sit around the table, my dad in his seat, only reserved for him, watching news or whatever, my mum somewhere in the room, my sister and I devouring the fries or the mutura, whichever was on offer. I used to share with her, see, my dad didn’t buy me anything (and I literally mean anything), my sister would get all sorts of things every few days, a skirt this day, a trouser the next few days, etcetera etcetera, me I got nothing, well, apart from the fries and mutura every night, it was simply beautiful, I thought. All of us around the table, stories aplenty.
Sometimes it would culminate into a debate…Many times into a quarrel and very little time I would get to see my dad smile at me which didn’t happen quite as often, he was not a smiler, oddly enough depends on who you asked. And I was extremely funny, we were happy, my mum, sister, and I would laugh the night away and he would sit there in his chair dozing off.
And we’d do it again the next night, my mum somewhere in the room, dad in his chair, and my sister and I digging in, while I’m being funny, trying to get that smile.
Until I found out the fries, the mutura, the apples were all for my sister. The realization was a bitter seasoning to our nightly gatherings, turning them into a bitter feast of longing and unspoken disappointment. My dad’s eyes, once distant, now felt unreachable, lost in the abyss of his own secrets and preferences. The table, once a sanctuary of familial unity, became a stage for my silent resentment and my sister’s oblivious indulgence. And as the nights passed, the silence between us grew thicker, suffocating the laughter and drowning out the echoes of what could have been.