My parents are divorced. My younger brother and I live with our father most of the time.

One day, my mother bought me a few bottles of apple cider, which my eleven-year-old brother mistook for apple juice. Even after I clarified the misunderstanding, he still kept trying to drink the cider. In fact, I think he was more enthusiastic now as he wanted to brag to his classmates that he had drunk alcohol.

My mother was visiting one dinner, and my brother got a bottle of apple cider out of the fridge and poured himself a cup.

I protested, of course, but neither of my parents spoke up, so I let the matter be.

It was only after I poured myself my own cup of cider that the discussion about our underage drinker came up.

Me: “Speaking of cider, why are you guys letting a certain eleven-year-old boy drink?”

Father: *To Mom* “I thought you would stop him. You’re the responsible one.”

Mom: “Huh? Me? I thought you would stop him. It’s your house!”

Me: “Are you kidding me? I thought you guys would stop him. You’re his parents!”

Brother: *Waves the empty cup* “Thanks for the drink!”

I’m a fully-functioning, college-educated adult. I live with my parents because I found a job in my hometown, and rent or property costs are extremely expensive around here. My boss is a bit of an airhead, and my mom is a bit of a worry-wart.

I get home one day, and my mom rushes to meet me at the door and wrap me in a big hug.

Mom: “Oh, thank God! You’re safe!”

Me: “Um… yeah? Why wouldn’t I be safe?”

Mom: “[Boss] called me this morning. He said you weren’t in your office today. The door was locked and the lights were off.”

Me: “I was definitely there. I had an IBS flare-up…”

My boss and most coworkers know I have IBS, in case it ever interferes with my work.

Me: “…so I went down to the restroom a few times, but otherwise, I was there all day. I talked to multiple people who could confirm that. I wonder why [Boss] went straight to calling you instead of calling my cell phone or talking to anyone else in the office.”

Mom: “I don’t know, but I’ve been panicking all day that you were dead in a car crash or something. Thank God you’re okay!”

I talked to my boss the next day to tell him to call ME next time he needs to know where I am, instead of calling my mother. I also told my mom that she can always call me herself to find out where I am. She had somehow never thought of that option after my boss called her.

My mom worked for a big retail company. At the time, you could get a few cents off per gallon of gas if you paid with a store gift card.

One year, just before Mother’s Day, my brother went into the store to buy a gift card for gas and stopped to talk to my mom. She very blatantly steered him toward a flower display and said how nice it would be to get a bouquet for Mother’s Day.

Brother: “Mom, will you buy my gas?”

Mom: *Jokingly* “You have a job; buy your own d*** gas!”

My brother laughed and went on his way to purchase his gift card and fill up his car. 

On Mother’s Day, Mom opened her card from him to find a [Store] gift card for $10 on which he had written, “Happy Mother’s Day. Buy your own d*** flowers.”

My aunt has lived for several months in Asia and then decided to move back to the USA. The plane was scheduled to leave at 10 am. She left her house for the airport, which without traffic was over forty minutes away… at 9:40 AM.

She was completely shocked and bewildered that the plane… DIDN’T WAIT FOR HER!

When she told us this and was confused by the fact that we had no sympathy for her, she said “Well, they should have realized from the manifest that we weren’t there yet!”

We all just laughed at her.

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.