A Sunday Story.

When I was a kid, Sundays were the most depressing day ever. There were the typical end-of-the-weekend & pack-your-bag-for-school-tomorrow woes but for me it was more than that. Up until I was about twelve, I spent every second weekend at my dad's house. Sundays meant I'd be driven back to mum's. Don't get me wrong, I love both my parents. I loved weekends at my dad's just as much as weekends at my mum's. But they were two completely different places where I had to be two completely different people. At mum's house, I was the youngest. I usually got my way. Mum and I would get in the car and she'd ask me where to? I'm ten years old, I don't know! At dad's, I was the middle kid. Quieter and less sociable than the others, I lived in silence. Nobody asked me where to drive to.


breakfast: french toast made with fresh eggs from the neighbour's chickens

At dad's, there were people to play with, things to do. My step-siblings and I used to put on "shows" on Saturday nights. This usually meant we'd grab mops and chairs and blankets and fashion a curtain of sorts in the living room, then prance around 'backstage' before getting up to sing and dance in front of "the parents". It was always a lot of fun. My favourite part of staying at dad's, though, was bedtime when he'd read to me. This continued up until I was about ten. Sometimes, if he was tired, I'd read to him instead. It was a little slice of childhood, when I got my father all to myself.

Mum's felt more like home. It was where I grew up, where I lived during the week, where I could be myself. Once my brother hit his teenage years and decided his little sister was not the coolest, I spent those weekends either alone or trailing after mum. Her house was a place where I could paint my bedroom door in fluorescent acrylic colours and not get in trouble. It was where I could sob my heart out at night and not have to explain myself. It was where my two kittens lived, and once we adopted them, I wasn't leaving.


what's a weekend off without playing with glitter?


nope, not the hollister website. you must be mistaken. ;)

5pm on a Sunday evening was the epitome of sadness. My step-siblings would have been picked up and sent home, and I'd sit in my dad's gravel driveway after waving them off, combing my fingers through the dirty stones. My brother would be hiding in our room, nose probably in a book. Dad would probably be finishing up in the shed, getting ready to take us home. That moment always felt so fragile, like I knew if I moved too suddenly, I'd break something.


3pm and still in my pyjamas.


next door's grumpy cat being grumpy. ft: the chickens who gave me breakfast.

Dad would drive us home through the familiar streets, a left on Boundary, right on Fontaine. And then we'd be home and the goodbyes would happen. I'd lug all my shit up the front stairs and find my mum cooking something fancy-smelling in the kitchen. The smell of my house always hit me hard. You know how you don't notice how your home smells until you've been away for a while? Yeah. The smell was what tripped me up. How I'd grown so used to the smell of dad's house over the weekend, and now I was back here and it smelled different, and tomorrow it would seem normal and then next week dad's would smell odd. It's what always set me off.


sun! in august! holy wow.


and here i actually sat down to catch up on uni notes.

Mum, if you ever read this, I'm sorry. I know I was a grumpy little shit on Sunday nights. But I couldn't really help it. I know you think I didn't want to be there with you but I did, I really did. I was a little girl being pulled in too many directions and I was bound to snap. Your house always smelled so homey. I still don't know if my tears were happy or sad.


writing letters! if you want one send your address to asleepykat@gmail.com


my brother made this just to make me smile. he is truly the cuter sibling.

These days, Sundays mean either a day spent working retail & dining with good friends or else they mean lazy home cooked meals, pyjamas all day, thinking about past woes, some kind of glitter craft & a new episode of The Tunnel (starring Clémence Poésy as my favourite character, like, ever).


mum's vegetarian lasagne OMNOMNOM

I suppose Sundays aren't so bad anymore.