murphy’s law
I can think of three ways this could go wrong.
First, Ma would see my caller ID (which in the first place assumes she still keeps her daughter’s numbers in her contacts) and naturally she’d go limp, prompting Pa to take my call instead (again, another assumption whereby he doesn’t fling Ma’s phone outside the window right away) and thus interluding to Cold War part two, decades after the Berlin Wall fell.
Second, I could try writing an email to the dusty family domain name, assuming Gemma does her dutiful daughter and responsible Sister role. When I moved here chasing the promises of glory (read: your name in the “About Us” page of a clean, minimalistic site design with logos of newspapers and tech sites endorsements) and gold (it pays you well that you can guiltlessly gobble up your avocado toast and piccolo latte without fear of not being able to buy houses or save for retirement, like so many fear-mongering financial articles write), I wrote a Keep note for her, listing down the things she needed to do to maintain the domain. It was time for her to step up her role in the family away from the doted daughter — it is time for you to be mature and come back, she texted me a few months ago in retaliation (I didn’t text her back). Even if Gemma does a better job at daughtering than I am, I highly doubt Ma and Pa even bother to check their emails — and even if they do, I’m not sure either if they would appreciate a digital Christmas greeting. All that while I would have spent endless hours picking the right font and the right indentations, my tabs teeming with thesaurus finding more poetic words for an otherwise fresh-from-Google standard Christmas greetings.
Third, the jam-packed road won’t allow me to reach their place on time. Why do people have to go out just few days before Christmas, having known very well that the road will be packed? Why feel the need to shop new outfits and presents? Why would you be easily bought by, I don’t know, capitalism, consumerism, and all those other big sounding words? Why the stupid Santa hats and reindeer headbands? The decorations are stupid. The Christmas traffic is stupid. The family dinner is stupid. The conversation by the faux fireplace is stupid. My family is stupid. I am stupid.
Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, they say.
So, this Christmas I will spend with my cozy bed and warm blanket, a slightly burned steak, and a glass of wine for one, just like how the last few Christmases have been.
(Fourth way it could go wrong, she hadn’t realised, is not contacting them at all. Her picture from college graduation being her last traces in their home, silently smiling, staring at the hot roasted beef shared by her parents and baby sister. Gemma just renewed the family domain’s subscription, checking its mailbox being Pa’s morning routine. Ma’s phone is safely tucked inside her dress pockets, set on vibration, expecting a call from a certain someone. There is an empty chair at the end of the table: a placemat, plate, and utensils just recently shelved as their other daughter showed no signs of coming home again this Christmas.)
Prompt: Murphy’s Law
