It felt weird to wake up this morning and know that I am waking up inside my house. MY house. Other quarter-lifers my age are probably just starting to think of getting out of their houses, finding a place of their own. They’d probably score a small, cramped apartment or a one-room flat. Richer kids would probably find themselves pampered inside a condominium or a townhouse. But me ---- I live inside my own house. A real one with five rooms, a surrounding garden and two 20-year-old kids to mind.
I am officially the only adult in the house now. One of my aunts was kicked out of the house because of dangerous behavior. The other one had to go live with a Tito who will be shouldering her medical check-ups. This leaves me to manage our house and our lot.
It was liberating at first. I can finally prove to myself how I can be as grown-up as this. But then, it gets daunting. The responsibility involved makes my eyes water with pain just thinking of it. Admittedly, the house our parents left us is too big for a starter grown-up. Maintenance alone would kill my back. Ella would be getting a job soon and I’m counting that it will help augment the expenses. It’s really challenging, I promise you. And it feels kind of lonely too.
But I promised. I promised to stay in the house and take care of it. And this promise, I cannot bear to break because it would also break my heart. So help me God.