Who to Love

Don't get me wrong; I love my parents; they truly mean the world to me, and I'd do anything for them. But I can't stay under the same roof with them any longer without losing my mind. Today is finally the day I'm moving out-heading off to college, which feels like an escape from a pressure cooker. After what felt like an eternity spent in a gap year, I finally decided to take the plunge into college life.

It wasn't driven by academic ambitions or career aspirations; I simply needed a break from home, a reprieve from the chaos that constantly surrounded me, a break from the never-ending arguments between my parents, the incessant nagging, and the overwhelming feeling of being a burden to my mom. I just needed to leave.

For as long as I can remember, my parents' marriage has been fraught with tension. The persistent discord has been a fixture in our home, so much so that I've found myself wishing for a divorce for them. Their fights often spiralled from petty disagreements-like the simple act of closing the toilet seat or keeping shoes off the carpet-only to escalate into dramatic accusations and hurtful insults. I once stumbled upon a condom and lubricant in my dad's car, a revelation that whispered secrets of infidelity, but that's a different story for another day.

They weren't particularly discreet about their struggles, and my two sisters and I were well aware of the emotional chasm between them. Yet, they somehow managed to create an environment where we felt loved and cared for at least until my dad made a disastrous financial mistake that set our home on edge. Suddenly, the shouting and anger became our daily soundtrack, and before long, it was directed at us-especially towards my mom. Conversations turned toxic, riddled with insults and raised voices that echoed through the hallways of our home.

Mom transformed into someone I hardly recognised: dramatic, hyper-sensitive, and always on edge. She insisted on early morning clean-ups, expecting us to rise at the crack of dawn and tidy up the house. If we missed even one day, chaos erupted. I couldn't shake the feeling that she had taken a dislike to me, which was complicated by the realization that I bore a striking resemblance to my dad. Any mistake I made seemed to trigger a torrent of complaints, while my sisters escaped her wrath. I tried my best to please her- waking up early to make breakfast, and tidying the house on days when I felt like I needed a little extra sleep, but none of my efforts seemed to matter. In those moments, I was just labelled lazy.

This resentment began to fester, particularly towards my older sister, Grace. It was painfully clear she was the favourite-she could sleep in, defy Mom's orders, and even snap back with little more than a playful eye-roll while receiving nothing but praise in return. The youngest, Martha, seemed blissfully ignorant of the family dynamics; she was always immersed in her phone, navigating her own world, rarely considering anyone else's feelings. This left me in the middle, a chronic people pleaser, longing for harmony, even at the expense of my own happiness. As long as the family was at peace, I was fine being the one who felt sad and unappreciated.

During all this turmoil, my dad was my anchor-not because my mom had failed me, but because of the unique bond we shared. From a young age, he treated me like a princess, showering me with love and affection that made me feel special and cherished. Even during financially challenging times, he found ways to surprise me with little gifts or special outings, showing his devotion in ways that spoke to my heart.