This was originally published on Substack. Follow me on there for posts first.
Because everything I seem to write on the internet has a comment from my mom underneath asking me when I’m coming back home.
My grandmother used to do the same until her stroke in 2020 and then her death this past April.
Now I wish I had a screenshot of every time she did.
Instead, I “unrestricted” her from Instagram just yesterday as if it makes up for all the times I’ve made her cry.
I hope my family doesn’t read this because I just got off a video call with them and I don’t want to be lectured again about misogyny in foreign countries (now that I’ve received my passport).
I don’t want their comments under my posts because then, it actually means they read it.
My mom reads everything I write and still doesn’t get the point.
When I was 18, I ran away from home—wrote a note and everything;
somehow, she still managed to misinterpret the whole thing.
But it’s fine, it’s not like I write about it or anything.
No, and even though I hope they don’t read this,
they are—really, the closest family I have.
And I think it’s fine if they don’t read this,
but it’s also fine if they do.
I never really expected anyone else to anyway.