She travelled a 1000 kilometers to help me move out. Leaving her family, her husband and her home behind.
I should be grateful to her. But I’m just irritated.
My home, my things. My space, my life. It’s all out there in open for her to see.
She opens the windows of my room to let fresh air come in. It irritates me.
She switches on the light and switches off the fan. It irritates me.
She fiddles with my clothes. It irritates me.
She sits on my bed and the bedsheet crumples. It irritates me.
She sees the soup and noodles packets in my kitchen. She sees the untouched dry fruits she sent last summer. She questions me about them. It irritates me.
She wants to go shopping for sarees. Not just for herself, but for me too. She talks about my marriage. It irritates me.
And it has been less than 10 hours of togetherness. The next three days are gonna be tough. I never knew my own mother would irritate me so much. And she is only helping me. Meh. I should just die of ungratefulness.