Family Affairs
For the whole month of April I lived in Naga City. For one whole month I lived with my grandmother. For thirty days I lived with my father – and his second family.
What is awkward.
To be honest, in the end, it didn’t feel too awkward. I didn’t feel very weird to the point that I’d like to evaporate already. Of course there was tension – there will
always be tension. Of course, eye contact was very limited and conversations were kept to a minimum. Everything was normal, but not the cozy kind of normal. Instead, it was
civil, like a platonic working relationship, like what you’d have with someone who used to be your best friend but had a scene with and now you’re trying to patch things up again. The relationship is there, but you know that what you have right now will never equal to what you had before all hell broke loose.
At first, yes, I didn’t know what to say or how to act around them. The moment I came in, you could just feel the weird air settle in and create this invisible barrier separating me from the stepmother and stepsiblings. What was more painful was that even with my father, I felt the tension. I separated myself from my
parent. What a
twisted thing to do. For the first couple of days, I avoided them. I couldn’t handle family awkwardness so I dodged them, kept my distance as much a possible, holed up in my grandmother’s room till I rot, read more than what was necessary, plugged my earphones on like the outsider that I was.
But as time progressed, I was able to be my normal self around them. I could walk inside the house without looking at the ground the whole way. They included me in meal conversations, in which I was able to respond without stammering or embarrassing myself by spouting water from my nose. It was okay; everything was fine.
The biggest revelation to me in my one month stay with the second family was this: I discovered a lot of things that made me understand why, why my father chose them instead of us, why they’re still whole and intact despite all the negativity they get from my grandmother, why they are still a picture of a happy family despite everything. I also learned to like them. I realized that they’re not as bad as what they tell you in movies and novels. The stepmother isn’t always so evil; the stepsiblings won’t always take your precious toy and claim it as theirs. This is the real world, not Cinderella’s. Maybe that’s why I learned to like them: because I finally had the chance to get to
know them better, to counter the ideas I had of them before that, to be honest, weren’t very promising. And most importantly, I was lucky to have one month with them for me to learn how to forgive.
Growing up without a father and a complete set of parents was hard. Back when I was younger, I couldn’t even talk about it, didn’t say that my parents are separated and I’m living only with my mother and brother, that our table lacks one leg. Why? Because it was
embarrassing. Being friends with kids who come from a complete and blissful family made me feel sad. School activities that required the participation of the whole family was torture. I looked at them and then I looked at myself, and I compared, and I only felt
pity. But when I grew older and experienced things and met new people, I realized that my life isn’t so bad, that others have it worse, that I’m lucky to have a parent and not totally an orphan. I learned to be grateful for and cherish what I have.
So now I’m talking about it because I feel proud that my mom is able to raise me and my brother well. I’m now talking about it because I already know why my father chose his second family. I’m now opening up because I already forgave and learned to accept.
I didn’t know why it took me so long to forgive – it’s one of the best feelings to ever exist in the human psyche. It feels like a burden has been relieved off your shoulders. The heart feels lighter; smiling doesn’t feel too forced. I accepted the reality that my father will never come back to us, that my family will never be complete again, that we just have to continue getting used to the table missing a leg. I learned that my father is better off with his second partner/wife, because I saw, in my stay, that he’s happier with her. They fit together perfectly; they complement each other; they make each other laugh. They are happy together. And maybe another reason why I learned to accept this is that I already know my parents – I imagine them together and can’t come up with that scene where both of them are happy. I can’t imagine them together; they’d be like two pieces of a puzzle that just wouldn’t connect together, that they’re pieces that belong to two
different puzzles, that forcing them together is both painful and impossible.
I am happy for my father. I am happy for my stepmother and my stepsiblings because they are able to find happiness in this world. I am happy for my mother because she has my brother and I and we’re too awesome to handle. I am happy for myself because I forgave and now have fresh perspectives in life.
Life is wonderful. It is imperfect, but it’s still wonderful.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Family Affairs
For the whole month of April I lived in Naga City. For one whole month I lived with my grandmother. For thirty days I lived with my father – and his second family.
What is awkward.
To be honest, in the end, it didn’t feel too awkward. I didn’t feel very weird to the point that I’d like to evaporate already. Of course there was tension – there will
always be tension. Of course, eye contact was very limited and conversations were kept to a minimum. Everything was normal, but not the cozy kind of normal. Instead, it was
civil, like a platonic working relationship, like what you’d have with someone who used to be your best friend but had a scene with and now you’re trying to patch things up again. The relationship is there, but you know that what you have right now will never equal to what you had before all hell broke loose.
At first, yes, I didn’t know what to say or how to act around them. The moment I came in, you could just feel the weird air settle in and create this invisible barrier separating me from the stepmother and stepsiblings. What was more painful was that even with my father, I felt the tension. I separated myself from my
parent. What a
twisted thing to do. For the first couple of days, I avoided them. I couldn’t handle family awkwardness so I dodged them, kept my distance as much a possible, holed up in my grandmother’s room till I rot, read more than what was necessary, plugged my earphones on like the outsider that I was.
But as time progressed, I was able to be my normal self around them. I could walk inside the house without looking at the ground the whole way. They included me in meal conversations, in which I was able to respond without stammering or embarrassing myself by spouting water from my nose. It was okay; everything was fine.
The biggest revelation to me in my one month stay with the second family was this: I discovered a lot of things that made me understand why, why my father chose them instead of us, why they’re still whole and intact despite all the negativity they get from my grandmother, why they are still a picture of a happy family despite everything. I also learned to like them. I realized that they’re not as bad as what they tell you in movies and novels. The stepmother isn’t always so evil; the stepsiblings won’t always take your precious toy and claim it as theirs. This is the real world, not Cinderella’s. Maybe that’s why I learned to like them: because I finally had the chance to get to
know them better, to counter the ideas I had of them before that, to be honest, weren’t very promising. And most importantly, I was lucky to have one month with them for me to learn how to forgive.
Growing up without a father and a complete set of parents was hard. Back when I was younger, I couldn’t even talk about it, didn’t say that my parents are separated and I’m living only with my mother and brother, that our table lacks one leg. Why? Because it was
embarrassing. Being friends with kids who come from a complete and blissful family made me feel sad. School activities that required the participation of the whole family was torture. I looked at them and then I looked at myself, and I compared, and I only felt
pity. But when I grew older and experienced things and met new people, I realized that my life isn’t so bad, that others have it worse, that I’m lucky to have a parent and not totally an orphan. I learned to be grateful for and cherish what I have.
So now I’m talking about it because I feel proud that my mom is able to raise me and my brother well. I’m now talking about it because I already know why my father chose his second family. I’m now opening up because I already forgave and learned to accept.
I didn’t know why it took me so long to forgive – it’s one of the best feelings to ever exist in the human psyche. It feels like a burden has been relieved off your shoulders. The heart feels lighter; smiling doesn’t feel too forced. I accepted the reality that my father will never come back to us, that my family will never be complete again, that we just have to continue getting used to the table missing a leg. I learned that my father is better off with his second partner/wife, because I saw, in my stay, that he’s happier with her. They fit together perfectly; they complement each other; they make each other laugh. They are happy together. And maybe another reason why I learned to accept this is that I already know my parents – I imagine them together and can’t come up with that scene where both of them are happy. I can’t imagine them together; they’d be like two pieces of a puzzle that just wouldn’t connect together, that they’re pieces that belong to two
different puzzles, that forcing them together is both painful and impossible.
I am happy for my father. I am happy for my stepmother and my stepsiblings because they are able to find happiness in this world. I am happy for my mother because she has my brother and I and we’re too awesome to handle. I am happy for myself because I forgave and now have fresh perspectives in life.
Life is wonderful. It is imperfect, but it’s still wonderful.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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