Once again, I rushed into saying something, like how I handled the second garage sale without any big emotional rollercoaster. And it’s true, I got through it all with a kind of numb detachment.
Then my friend arrived, the one who now lives in New York and I met her here. She flew home to Budapest for the Easter break, so I asked her to meet up with my dad and bring me my new bank cards, since managing with three expired ones here is… not ideal (though honestly, it would be a pain anywhere, so it’s not New York-specific). I also asked her to bring a few of my favorite things.
My dad packed everything up. And honestly, it was the unpacking that hit me, totally out of the blue.
Silly, stupid stuff, like in the pocket of my vest were still the same dog poop bags I bought at home in my favourite little pet store where the girl loved my furry babies so much that she gave them more gifts than I actually spent there. There was also the lipstick I wore to a big audition, I remembered how I was in a rush and struggeled with my car to park in the streets of Budapest and I miss that car and I miss the crazy people who shout my head off the proper way only a hungarian can complain, tore me to pieces without using a single bad word, because I decided to refresh my makeup and hair in the middle of the road. Also, the vest is covered in cat hair, which completely threw me off. I thought I wouldn’t miss the bengals that much. I was wrong, again.
But the hardest part was seeing my dad’s handwriting on the envelope that held the cards. The familiar, stretched, neatly-formed letters, but I could almost see the pen shaking as he wrote. That’s what broke me.
I was suddenly overwhelmed by this brutal and aching guilt, that I left them, that I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back, that they’re getting old. On video calls, my dad’s face looks faded, his hair is fully gray, and I’m terrified the puffiness under his eyes isn’t from poor sleep but from his heart.
And sure, it’s amazing to be pursuing my dreams and living in a city that finally feels like home. But sometimes I wonder, if am I giving up too much for that dream? The thought that something could happen to my dad and I wouldn’t be there, it’s unbearable.
I just sat there with the torn envelope in my hand, gently running my fingers over my dad’s handwriting as my tears smudged his wobbly letters.
The guilt felt physical, like weight pressing on my chest. And it comes back every time I put on that fuzzy little vest , the one that still smells a little like my dad and the soy candles in my office. I even left the cat hair on it. I wish I had someone to talk to about all of this, but for now it just feels unsharable, so if I can’t tell anyone, I’ll tell everyone here.
The people around me here are mostly born-and-raised New Yorkers, except the two close friends I do have, but unfortunately they are both getting ready to leave. Just last night I was at a farewell dinner. That doesn’t exactly make it easier for me to cope with these feelings.
And to top it all off, it’s Mother’s Day. My first ever without my son. And the first where my own mom is still so upset with me that she won’t answer my calls. So I sent her a “Happy Mother’s Day” email. I mean, if at least I had gotten married, which, as we all know, is the only legitimate reason for a girl to move far from her parents’ house, then maybe it would be acceptable. But no, not even that happened. In her eyes, this is rock bottom. I’m sure she’s just desperately hoping the neighbors never find out.
There are definitely better days than this one.
But today… today is a hard one.
So I’m holding my furry kids a little closer, tighter, and I’ll probably post something silly on the dogs’ Instagram page. Because hey, a dog mom is a mom too. And since, according to my mother, I’ve already failed both as a daughter and as a mother, at least I can still be a decent mommy to these two furry little babies.
