PART I 

You don’t remember getting out of bed. All you remember is sitting on that staircase, hugging yourself, trying to make the goosebumps go away. You didn’t put on a hoodie or sweatpants, but you don’t remember why. Maybe you meant to go downstairs, but the noise stopped you. Maybe that’s why you sat there, on the staircase, in nothing but your nightie.  

You could tell that the voices were raised, but you couldn’t overhear what was being said. Or maybe you just don’t remember what was said anymore. You do remember being able to tell the difference: your mother’s voice high and demanding, your father’s low and distant. 

You remember resting your head against the cool wall. It made you feel even colder, but you couldn’t get yourself to move. Not up, not down, so you stayed there, hugging yourself, shivering. Your body didn’t feel like your own. It felt like someone else was sitting there on the staircase. 

Light shone through the window above the sitting room door. You could see it through the bars on the staircase. It cast shadows you traced with your eyes. You don’t remember what you were thinking, if you were thinking, nor do you recollect what you were feeling. You can imagine what you might have felt, but you don’t know if those are the things you actually felt or impressions you formed afterwards and attached to this memory.   

Every so often, a tear found its way down your cheek. You weren’t crying, just losing a tear now and then. There was no shortness of breath or sobs or a runny nose, just tears that glided down your face. You didn’t wipe it away.  

You remember hearing a door open. Your baby sister looking down on you, in her nightie as well. You don’t remember if you said anything, nor if she did. She sat down next to you on the staircase, but you can’t recall if you put an arm around her. You know you should have. Just like you should have said something to her, or maybe sent her back to bed. 

You don’t remember how long you sat there. It could have been five minutes or an hour. It felt like eternity. Yet, it also feels like it might have been mere seconds. Your memories have faded. The staircase, the raised voices, the cold, your baby sister, all pushed into unknown corners of your mind for so long, they have now become unknown to you. 

PART II 

You remember sneaking up the stairs to the attic; holding your breath while carefully going up one step at a time, to not make a sound. You recall how the door wasn’t all the way closed. Bright daylight shone through. Despite the bright light, you could see your father sitting at his desk.  

You recollect sitting down in front of the door, positioning yourself so you could peek inside the room. You remember how light everything was, the sunshine, the white walls and staircase, and how you hated it. It hurt your eyes and forced you to squint.  

Looking at your father’s slumped shoulders, you couldn’t help but wanting to reach out and hug him. You knew you couldn’t do that though, because it would only lead to you crying. Having to console you is the last thing your father needed. Even now you still struggle with this. You like the idea of hugging your parents, holding them tight. But when it comes to it, you always shy away from their attempts to hug you. It got so bad that your parents came up with a rule; you had to hug them on their birthdays, and they could hug you on yours.  

Then the phone rang. You remember vividly because the sudden sound made you squeak. Your father answered. “Met Gerrit Huisinga.” 

Your whole body tensed up. Phone calls rarely held good news. Your hands balled into fists as you see your father deflate, though his words sound perfectly amicable. 

“Ja, jammer. Begrijpelijk, als er iemand beters is. Ik had het heel leuk gevonden om bij jullie te komen werken.”  

You vaguely remember closing your eyes and shaking your head. Those words, again. They are branded on your soul, and every time your father had to tell you over dinner that he didn’t get the job, a piece of your heart broke for him.  

 When you think back of this memory now, an intense sadness develops in your stomach, paired with anger you didn’t know you had. Anger at the people who failed to recognise your father’s worth. Who only looked at the possible drawbacks of employing a 58-year-old, instead of the positives, like the wealth of experience he held.  

That’s the angriest you have ever been. To this day. Worse things have arguably happened to you since then, but that is how you quickly learnt that there is nothing worse than watching someone you love struggle, be in pain, and not be able to do anything to stop it. 

PART III 

You remember how you and your sister always had to divide chores. One had to set the table, and one had to clear it. You don’t recall whether or not you set or cleared the table that night. You don’t even remember what you were eating. Probably something pasta-ish.  

“Lieverds,” your mom started. “Jullie vader en ik willen jullie iets vertellen.” You clearly recall exchanging a look with your sister at your mother’s words. You got the impression she knew what they wanted to talk about as well.  

“We weten dat het lastig is, met papa werkloos. Er zijn dingen waar we op moeten gaan bezuinigen, maar we willen dat jullie snappen dat dit iets is waar alleen wij ons zorgen over hoeven te maken, oké? Jullie hoeven je nergens druk over te maken, dat is onze taak.” 

You recall nodding and continuing with dinner. Your mom probably wanted a verbal response, but you couldn’t give her that because you knew it wouldn’t sound convincing at all.  

You understand now that your parents’ intentions were good. Telling you not to worry about adult stuff because that’s their job is logical, from a parent’s point of view. However, telling you not to worry is like telling the sun not to shine. You did worry, you still worry; worrying is your natural state. If not about your parent’s financial situation, you worry about getting a job after university (why would anyone want to hire you), about whether or not your boyfriend still loves you (he didn’t give you a kiss before he left this morning, maybe he hates you), about whether or not your friends still want to be your friends (you haven’t gotten a text message from them in two days, maybe they hate you), about whether or not you made a fool of yourself that one time with those people (it’s not like you’ll see them again but still)… 

You remember when your psychologist told you that there is no sense in worrying until the thing that worries you actually happens. So simple, yet so effective. You recall just staring at her as your mind went silent. Complete, utter, beautiful silence. Unfortunately, remembering her words is not always as effective as that first time, but it still helps you put your mind to rest on occasion.  

You never told your parents how being told not to worry made you feel invalidated. And you never will. They meant well and telling them would hurt them. Besides, since you understand their reasoning, you’re not really angry or upset with them, so what would be the point? Right?