The broken sink.

A few weeks ago, I woke up around afternoon. It was a weekend, and I had no school. Usually, when I wake up in the afternoon, I directly take a bath to keep myself fresh and afterwards I would have a late lunch.

But that afternoon when I woke up, I saw something unusual in our bathroom. I was about to take a bath when I saw the sink, where I brush my teeth, was broken. Or shattered; but not wholly—I would say at least 1/2 of it (the photo of the broken sink can be seen below). Along with that, I saw a note left by my dad. Which was weird, because he does not like leaving notes unlike my mom.

What made me forget about the broken sink was the content of the letter/note. He said he was sorry, and that he would replace what he broke. Why? Because my dad never liked saying sorry that much. He usually takes pride in what he says. But I felt happy because he took the chance to say sorry so he won’t upset us—especially my mother. I know hearing something like having your dad breaking the sink is a funny story, I mean, it is. But I didn’t think of the situation like that. Not at first.

Because of the small gesture my dad did, it melted my heart. It made me feel overwhelmed and it kind of made me teary-eyed (yes, I’m THAT emotional). I think what’s important is that sometimes we get too caught up in our own problems with others that we tend not to be rational. I think usually it’s not important if the person makes it up to you for their mistakes—what’s important is how the person says sorry and you feel as if they mean it. Sometimes, it’s true; saying sorry can make things okay.

No, I did not need for my dad to fix the sink for me to forgive him. I’m not even bothered that he broke it (well, mainly, because I can still use it). It’s because I forgot for a while that he even broke it because he owned up to his actions—a thing he does not normally do (not in any way that I understand, though. Usually he would own up to his actions by doing something else for you without you even knowing that that’s his way of saying sorry. My dad isn’t really showy).

“House” not “Home”

I am raised by my parents
Sometimes they’re there
Sometimes they weren’t
And when I grew older
I woke up into reality
A nightmare so horrifying

One day I’d hear mom and dad arguing
About something that isn’t worth fighting
I’d be on my bed all night
Trying to choke down the tears that are coming
I question myself “Is this what you call a family?”
Nothing but fights, lectures and feeling suffocated?

I should be grateful I have a house to live in
But I cannot consider it a home like yours
Because a home consists of happiness and contentment
Ours is rather dark, mad and broken

And when I’m lucky, my parents get along well
They’d laugh about anything and talk in a mild tone
And in those moments I started to genuinely smile
I felt like I could finally call this place “home”

But then grey skies poured over the earth
Everything was back to “normal”
Back to the old routines of our shattered selves
And I would cry myself all over again
Like I did in days like these

But…
One question lingers my mind
As I stay inside this destroyed house of ours
How can you feel so incomplete
when you were intact in the first place?