If It’s That Big A Deal, Make Your Own Sandwich

One of my (many) chores when I was a teenager was to make sandwiches for my family after school. Today is cheese sandwiches. My dad usually has brown sauce on his cheese sandwiches, but because I’m an insecure wreck, I have to ask him every time whether or not he wants it. Nobody else wants sauce.

Me: “Daddy? Do you want brown sauce?”

Dad: “How many times do I have to tell you? Brown sauce on cheese sandwiches, no sauce on ham sandwiches!”

Me: “Okay, sorry. I was just checking…”

I finish making the sandwich and take it to my dad.

Dad: “[My Name]!”

Me: “Yeah?”

My dad has opened his sandwich to reveal the contents, and he gestures to it.

Dad: “What is this?”

Me: “Uh… Your sandwich?”

Dad: “This is orange cheese, [My Name].”

Me: “Uh-huh…”

Dad: “Why’d you put sauce on an orange cheese sandwich?”

Me: “But you said you wanted sauce on cheese sandwiches.”

Dad: “No, I want sauce on normal cheese sandwiches. Brown sauce doesn’t go with orange cheese.”

Me: “But I did ask—”

Dad: “Well, you didn’t tell me it was orange cheese, did you?”

Me: “Well, no, but—”

Dad: “So, I thought you were making normal cheese sandwiches, which are the ones where I do have brown sauce.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—”

Dad: “Are you going to make me a new one or do I have to do that myself, too?”

Me: “I— Ah, I’ll make you a new one.”

As I turned to go back into the kitchen, he called me back to take the unwanted sandwich with me. Since I knew he’d sulk if I threw it away, and since I hadn’t finished making my own sandwich yet, that ended up being my sandwich. Luckily, I don’t dislike brown sauce too much; I just prefer not to have it.

That’s probably why I have anxiety.