This is the moment I’ve been living in fear of for years.

I have officially become my mother.

Being my mother is not really so bad. She’s a great person, has good personal hygiene and generally seems pretty happy.

The worst part of being my mother is having to live with her, something I have been desperately (and successfully) avoiding since the tender age of seventeen. My mother and I never lived well together – I was never clean enough for her, never quiet enough, never came home when she wanted or got up early enough in the morning. I was, in her criticism, lazy and selfish and rude and I left towels on the floor and dishes in the sink and doors unlocked when I shouldn’t.

I was, in other words, a teenager, and a poor fit for a suburban middle class household.

Now I’m older and slightly more inclined to pick the towels off the floor, but really no more acclimated to a nice, mainstream middle-class existence. And, having become the woman I spent my adolescence fighting over this, there’s really no escape.

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