I flopped onto my bed in tears. This was not the first time that month, with auditions, concerts, exams and homework pilling up I had long since given up on trying to stop the flow of water from my swollen eyes. Yes, the month of April had not been kind to me, and to add on to all the pressures of a teenage life was the insipid truth that my grandparents, who usually only visited for 3 weeks or so, were staying for much, much longer. You see, my family is Iranian and much of my family lives their, including my grandparents. This particular pair (on my mother’s side) had 3 children, my mother, my uncle, and my aunt. Usually my grandparents would stay in Iran for the summer and then, like a game of hot potatoes, each child would get to see them for a while until they would eventually get passed back over to Iran. This year, however, was very different.

You can imagine that, at the ripe old age of 79, this kind of travel was hard on my grandfather and this year he needed back surgery for his constant pains. The surgery occurred when my grandfather was at my uncle’s home, in California, and although my grandfather complained about pains, he decided to travel to our home in Wisconsin, ignoring the doctor’s orders. Little did we know the fuse would burn out when he reached our little home. He suddenly could not move from extreme back pain and suddenly our home had become a hospitalized zone and I, without my knowledge, had become one of the nursing assistants. I was soon being ordered around by a frantic mother or a moaning grandfather and my life had become following all and any orders. I noticed that soon I had begun dreading going home and began to dive into watching YouTube and TV. shows on Netflix to escape the reality of my new life. I do love my grandfather more than most can say, but his medications began making him a bit more difficult to deal with at some points. I began falling behind in homework and my other responsibilities and nothing seemed to matter except getting home and running upstairs to my room before anyone could ask my for “just one more favor.”

My mother had the greatest amount of stress on her. With a sick father who would only speak of his intolerant pain and the new responsibilities at work she became increasingly busy. I never saw her and it was difficult for me to accept that she had really become so booked she couldn’t spare some time for me. But she would always reply that she would “try and put some time aside for me later” or that “if I did this for her, then she could do that really quickly, and then we could spend some time together.” But it never happened, and I began realizing something else, that the only way for me to get my mother’s attention was to anger her. And so it began. I couldn’t help it at first; I just wanted her to realize that it had been weeks since we had last talked and that she didn’t even acknowledge me anymore. I would try and chip into conversations she would be having with my sister or grandmother, and sometimes add a little comment here or there to try and get a response and it worked quite well. She began talking to me again, and even though my comments wouldn’t always be “harsh,” her stress would always cause her to respond aggressively. But, I thought, it was better than nothing. And it went on.

I do admit I could have been a lot more sympathetic to my mother, but she also was at fault. She began taking things out of proportion. Every comment I made to anyone was always against her and soon we were both short-tempered and unreasonable. One night, we both exploded and ended up having perhaps our greatest fight yet. Sick and tired of her pushing me around and not understanding, I tried to stand up to myself. This was like the final hit of a piñata, and the effect was like watching the candy fly all round you. The wild animal had been released and it was merciless. There is one thing I have learned throughout all my years of being a daughter, and that is, no matter how reasonable you try to be, they will not waiver, and they are always the winners. Needless to say, it has led to a broken relationship that I only hope can be mended.

But when I look back on the fight, was I that wrong? Yes, some of my arguments may have been a bit harsh, but all in all, I was trying to get her to understand me. My mother is actually quite older than me, and at the time she had me she wasn’t even sure if it was safe to be having at child at her age. This is age gap has led to quite a bit of hardships. The greatest is perhaps that my mother has forgotten what it is like to be a teenager, to grow up with the pressures of college and this vast, unknown future ahead of you. The only thing that does seem certain in this great, ever changing universe is the trust of friendship and family. My greatest support was always my mother, for many years. But, in 9 weeks time, she has been quickly and cruelly whisked away from me, leaving me in the bit black openness of space.