Who Says You Can’t Go Home
When your mom tells you it’s time to clean out your childhood bedroom, you have no choice but to cry a little for no reason, then drive your grown-ass, 27-year-old self home for the weekend.
Upon arrival, you’ll face your demons. More specifically, 36 of them. Your porcelain doll collection takes up the majority of your room, and though you’ve since been cured of this frightening addiction, you could never bear the thought of tossing them. These are human beings, for God’s sake!
And then you look at your mother, utterly exhausted from spending nearly three decades dusting 36 velvet hats, muffs and overcoats, and you realize it’s time to grow up.
“Just get rid of them all,” you announce, completely shutting down inside. “Except the Anne of Green Gables dolls! But everything else, get rid of. I don’t care.”
But having birthed you–and once also cleaning shit out of your underwear after an accident at the movie theater–Mom can sense you’re not quite ready to let go.
Being the angel that she is, she’ll suggest you just box them up for now. The selling of said dolls–human trafficking, if we’re all being honest with ourselves–can be handled at a later date.
As you’re contorting various porcelain limbs into cardboard boxes, you start to wonder what’s wrong with you. Why can’t you Idina up and let it go?
And then, a few minutes later, you see your Mom hunched over your dresser, holding a little something special of her own. Turns out she’s been saving your wisdom teeth for the past decade.
The demented apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.