You can't go home again

I'm slowly recovering from my trip up North. With feelings almost as mixed as the drinks menu for the Christmas party season...

Going there always fills me with sadness. It doesn't feel like going home. It isn't my home. Not sure it ever really was. But it definitely isn't that now. Though I'm not sure it really is my Dad's either...

Since he came back from his peacekeeping mission, along with that duty free car he also brought a brand new wife. And slowly but surely since then he's been squeezed out of his money and his home. Even when the real estate market has suffered, their agent has made a killing, seeing how they've changed homes for, like 4 times since. Their latest one has even seen a € 50 000 sauna department renovation. How that is even possible is beyond me. Did they decide tiles were so 80's and decide to cover their walls with ivory instead? Are their faucets made out of gold and hand-crafted by Peruvian virgins?!

The latest one also features a separate granny flat. That was originally intended as the living quarters of my Step mum's severely handicapped child. And guess who's living there now? Yep, my Dad. And guess who my Step mum shares her bedroom with? Yep, her daughter. Even a psychologist (an actual one, not the Dr. Phil that I have lecturing in my head, labelling people as "enablers" and using words like "unequivocal".) have pointed out how the relationship is an unhealthy one; a one my Step Mum will have to learn to let go of.

She, obviously, doesn't see it. She doesn't get that she's practically married to her own child and my Dad is left to fend for himself in this worst threesome any heterosexual man could think of. Their entire lives revolve around her and her kid. And she's the only one who doesn't see it. And on the other hand- why would she? My Dad has enabled this unequivocally sick scenario.

He cuts such a sad figure, living in his flat, a life completely separate from the wife he though would be his chance at happiness at last. He's an outsider in his own life; a stranger in his own marriage.

I only had to put up with the set-up for a couple of days. And even most of those I was either drunk, MIA or both. I can't even imagine what it must be liken for him to live his life like that, day in, day out.

I'm so glad I'm not going there for Christmas; that I'm not expected to take part in this charade. Though if I did- this would be the one I'd do:

Song. 4 words. First one, 1 syllable. Smack? Slap? No, it's HIT!

Second word. Definite article... THE.

Third word. What's that she's doing- walking? Erm... street? No... ROAD! 

Fourth word. Sounds like...smack? Crack? No, I think I've got it: JACK!

HIT THE ROAD JACK!