I often pondered how parents managed to impart those quintessential childhood experiences, especially when mine didn’t. Riding a bike, sitting at the dining table while explaining math equations — these were alien concepts to me. Was it normal for children to be picked up from school? Was it normal to come home to the aroma of dinner simmering in the kitchen? Was it normal for parents to be present on birthdays? What does that feel like? Pray, enlighten me about waking from a nightmare in your mother’s embrace, or coming home to a living room adorned with family photos and fresh flowers. Tell me, what was it like?
I came home to an empty house, with cold floors and groceries in my hand to prepare dinner. A house that felt emptier than purgatory itself. No photo frames, my parents’ room was vacant, my brother’s room was deserted. I was the sole living entity in that house, according to the heartbeat in my chest — if that’s anything to go by. That was my normal. I was fourteen, at least physically.
My parents weren’t dead, but they might as well have been. No, they weren’t neglectful either; I had a strong relationship with them, even now. I won’t bore you with the circumstances, but they only visited me once a week. From fourteen to the present, I still only saw my parents 52 times a year, and sometimes they didn’t come at all. Fifty-two times a year, a four-hour drive to and from, eight hours total each week. Once a week, yet less than 24 hours spent together.
“Happy Birthday kiddo, sorry we couldn’t come down this week x. Love you!”
Each year the text was different but it hurt all the same.
“Thanks, mum! I love you too ❤”
Each year, each text, sent a different tear down my cheek, a different sob, but the salt that poured onto the wound came from the same jar.
I suppose that explains why I become so emotional when someone remembers my birthday or when someone forgets. I never knew how to feel about my situation. Was I even permitted to feel upset about it?
“You live alone? You’re so lucky omg!”
“Yeah, I guess.”
At fourteen, I taught myself to wash my own clothes, cook my own meals, grasp school subjects, and wipe my own tears. Yet, I couldn’t even ride a bike. My neighbours were a family of four, like mine, except they lived together. Observing them engage in regular family activities warmed my heart just as much as it shattered it. Shopping together, getting picked up from school, riding bikes down the street — I longed for that.
Now, I reside with my brother in a house our parents own — no longer a rental. I seized the opportunity to fill the house with family photos, terrified of the emptiness I had endured for so long. My brother and I don’t converse much, but his mere presence provides comfort beyond measure. My parents won’t be here on my 19th birthday, and it breaks me that I’m no longer perturbed by it. I’ve yet to break my birthday crying streak, but this year is a year of firsts, so perhaps it is time.
Now that I am in university, I prioritize quality time with my parents over my assessments. I’ve always had the dream of studying abroad but I’ve missed too much, and I yearn desperately to heal the wounded child who grew up in the absence of her parents. I’ll leave when I’m ready or when my fourteen-year-old self finally mends. I won’t be riding a bike anytime soon, but I look forward to baking cookies with my mum, assisting with dinner preparations, and staying up past one in the morning awaiting their weekly arrivals. The house, once a void echoing with loneliness, now whispers with the promise of shared memories and the warmth of rekindled connections.
