Family visits are supposed to be warm, predictable, and comforting. At least, that’s what everyone says. But when Aunt Natasha announced she was “just passing by,” we should have known better.
She arrived with three suitcases for a weekend stay, a list of dietary complaints, and the unique talent of rearranging furniture without asking. Within the first hour, the living room no longer looked familiar, and neither did our patience.
Dinner became the first battlefield. My mother’s signature dish was “too salty,” my father’s silence was “too loud,” and my cousin’s phone use was treated like a personal insult. Every sentence carried hidden meaning, every smile felt forced, and every laugh arrived a second too late.
The real disaster came on Sunday afternoon. A harmless conversation about childhood memories turned into a full investigation of past mistakes. Old grudges resurfaced like unpaid debts. Someone mentioned inheritance. Someone else cried. The dog hid under the table.
By the time the visit ended, the house was quiet but heavy. Cups sat untouched, chairs stayed out of place, and everyone avoided eye contact. No one said goodbye properly. We all agreed it was “nice to see each other,” knowing it wasn’t true.
Family visits don’t always fail loudly. Sometimes they fail in whispers, in awkward silences, and in the relief you feel when the door finally closes. And yet, despite everything, we all know we’ll do it again because family, for better or worse, always comes back.
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