I came home from a long day at work today, wishing I could just jump right into the comforting embrace of my bed and drift off to sleep.
I looked in horror at the bags of stuff outside my room and felt, rather than heard, my mother’s cheerful voice sing, “I packed your room. It looks as good as new now. Go through your stuff and throw away what you don’t want.”
The things I don’t want are already in the bin, I thought to myself. I hate it when my mother tries to be helpful, especially when I know how she’s prone to sneaking. My temper was already bad to begin with, and seeing my sanctuary disturbed like this, I swear it took all my remaining strength not to yell at her.