Parents
There is a strange, almost mathematical rhythm to the way we relate to our parents. Not a neat, polite equation - more like a drunken sine wave that staggers across the decades, bumping into resentment, gratitude, embarrassment, and finally an uncomfortable recognition when you catch yourself saying something and think, Oh God. That was my mother. It’s tempting to believe our relationship with our parents is fixed. That it is either good or bad, loving or damaged, close or distant. But in truth, it’s more like a long serial drama, with shifting genres, recast roles, and the occasional mid-season crisis. The same characters, yes - but wildly different interpretations depending on how old we are when we’re watching. Let’s start at the beginning. From one to ten, we need them. Completely. Utterly. In ways that feel so obvious they barely register. Parents are not people at this stage; they are infrastructure. They are gravity, oxygen, heat, and snacks. They are the ones who make...