Family Dinner|Sofiya Budeva
Growing up, I never really had a sense of family dinner like the one they show in movies, where everyone gathers around the table and they share things about their day. I grew up in a small apartment in the heart of Athens with my hardworking immigrant parents. The apartment had a common room, which we used as a living room, and where we would occasionally have lunch. That same room served also as my bedroom, or more accurately, the space where I slept. The nice, dark, bluish velvet couch was the guest one. My mom would watch her favorite TV shows there after work, and sometimes we would read bedtime stories or do homework, sitting with our legs crossed, facing each other. The faded green couch at the back of the room was my bed. I had surrounded it with my favorite stuffed animals and toys, asserting ownership and warning adults not to sit on it.
Our apartment, although small, was always filled with people. My parents, who were the only ones in the group with a child, would frequently gather everyone at our house. Whether it was a regular gathering or a celebration, everyone would come to our place. And that had its perks, especially when you’re a cute 3-year-old that everyone adores and who is constantly spoiled with sweets and toys.
Apart from those gatherings, however, my parents would rarely have the time for collective activities such as family dinners. My dad would often work night shifts at his second job and come home when both my mom and I were long asleep. On the rare occasions, I was allowed to stay up after my bedtime and watch movies with my mom, my dad would come home a bit earlier after work and bring us our favorite chocolate cake. My mom, on the other hand, would often return home exhausted and try to catch up on chores. Dinner was usually served on the go for me on my own small table and brightly colored chair, which I used to eat all of my meals while watching cartoons.
Later in life, I had my own room for the first time. A purple one with a huge bookcase and a normal desk, on which I could finally do my homework and store all of my textbooks. And the greatest thing was that I didn’t have to share it with anyone, and it wasn’t serving any other purpose other than being my bedroom. My mom, on the other hand, had finally got her dream living room, where she could invite all of her friends, and a nice kitchen with a dining table for all four of us. Now we could finally eat together as a family!
Or so I thought…
My dad had now moved to Germany for work, and my mom had recently given birth to my brother. Therefore, my dad was absent and my mom was preoccupied with caring for the baby, which threw off her entire schedule and left her exhausted all of the time. I often had dinner by myself in the kitchen while my mom fed my brother, and soon after that, I started having dinner in my bedroom while watching Youtube videos on my computer.
Now, I won’t lie, there were occasions on which we would have dinner together, but they were so rare that it often felt bizarre. I didn’t get along with my father much, and we rarely saw each other, apart from the times he would come back from Germany, during which I would do my best to avoid him. I never quite understood what was particularly the reason we couldn’t even sit down for dinner together. One could be the fact that the conversation would always lead to his efforts to exercise parental control, which he obviously lacked due to his absence from my daily life. Or that we’d become so distant and awkward that tension was unavoidable, leading to me leaving the table before everyone had finished eating, which would not sit right with him, and that would lead to a huge fight, ending with me crying myself to bed and my parents arguing in the living room.
As time passed and with the emergence of teen hormones, the situation had gotten so out of hand that my mom would beg me to behave for at least a few days while my dad was at home, as I was making him feel unwanted, which made him sad. She couldn’t understand how, just in a few years, we had gone from loving father and daughter to literal bitter rivals. Neither could I…
For years, I tried to explain to myself why we would fight so much but found no answer. Every time he came back home, I would try my best to ignore him as much as possible just so we didn’t have the chance to fight and upset my mom, who often took the blows from both sides and stood in the awkward position of having to soothe both of us. My dad would accuse her of spoiling me, and I would hit her with the blame for not taking my side. She would try hard to keep the tension during the day and prepare the battlefield for dinner. She would make my favorite dish in order to force me out of my room and make me sit at the table. Then she would spend hours explaining to my father that my behavior is typical for a teenager and that he shouldn’t fuel our argument. But once we all sat at the table for our family dinner, all her efforts would go to waste because my dad and I would end up fighting over something as little as the position of the salt shaker on the table or the pace of his chewing. With every year, family dinners became shorter, and soon my brother started having his dinners in his room with headphones on.
On Christmas Eve 2019, my relationship with my dad was so bad that we barely acknowledged each other’s existence. My mother, who had become tired of putting up with our constant bickering, gathered us in the kitchen and informed us that we would be welcoming guests and that we had better spend a few hours pretending to like one other on this important family holiday. Both my dad and I remained silent and went back to our tasks. My father was assigned to the grocery shopping, and I was allocated to assist her in the kitchen. She had evidently intended to keep us occupied before dinner so that we wouldn’t become tense. My grandpa, uncle and his wife, and my small cousin were among the first to arrive. In an obvious effort to keep an eye on us, my mother sat next to me and across from my father. The dinner seemed to go on forever, and I kept my cool while answering questions about my academics and career direction.
My mother offered all of us coffee once we finished, and each adult got out a pack of cigarettes and began smoking. My family while aware that I was a regular smoker, had never seen me smoke. My mom, in what felt like a rewarding manner for going through the dinner without any disruptions, offered me one of her cigarettes, and after getting my grandfather’s permission, I lighted it up. Then came my mother’s worst nightmare. My dad grabbed my cigarette from me and we started yelling, making everyone uncomfortable and causing my brother to flee to his room. My mother stared in disbelief, then stood up with the coldest look I’ve ever seen on her face. “I’m done,” she said after looking at my father and then at me, “That’s it. I’m sick of forcing you to act like you like each other. It’s great if you want to despise each other and destroy every family event. But I’m not going to be a part of this anymore.” She then turned around and walked out of the room, leaving us all speechless.
For days, she didn’t say anything. My father’s and my attempts to get her to say something seemed to be fruitless. We were at a loss for what to do. We waited there for days, unsure if she would ever forgive us. Those were the days when my father and I learned to live together again. We both formed a silent pack to avoid upsetting my mother any further. We didn’t have to say anything because we both knew this was our last chance. Whether you believe me or not, those words were the necessary slap that put an end to our long-running conflict.
My mom forgave us not long after this Christmas Eve. I still fight with my dad over small things, but we both understand that there are boundaries we should not cross. We both make a conscious effort to make dinnertime bearable. I have even caught my mom secretly smiling at me and my dad when we decide to watch a movie together or when she overhears us casually chatting in the morning while making coffee. We even agreed to both help her prepare the Christmas Eve dinner last year, and for the first time in my life, my father and I drank whiskey and smoked cigars together.
Family dinners are now a regular occurrence, and despite the fact that I no longer live under the same roof, I attend them more frequently than before. They also last longer. We all finish our desserts and then stay for coffee. We don’t have to say it, but we will do our best to keep this tradition alive and avoid the events that took place on Christmas Eve in 2019.
