(I am sitting in the family room with my kids, watching “Inside Out,” when my eight- and nine-year-old sons start talking about the colors of emotions and behaviors, which ends with the following.)

Eight-Year-Old: “Silly must be rainbow.”

Nine-Year-Old: “Yeah. Lonely is white. What color is serious, Mom?”

Me: *amused* “Well, there really is only one color serious could be, isn’t there?”

Eight-Year-Old: *stares down [Nine-Year-Old] as he starts laughing, catching on quickly* “Don’t. Don’t you dare!”

Nine-Year-Old: *ignoring his brother* “Black! Serious is black! Serious Black!”

Eight-Year-Old: *groaning* “I’m going to bed. I’m serious!”

Me: *trying not to laugh* “I thought your name was [Eight-Year-Old], but it’s nice to meet you, Sirius.”

Eight-Year-Old: “Gah!” *flops over on floor and covers his ears* “Stop with the Potter puns!”

(The nine-year-old pokes his younger brother’s arm and tries to stop laughing long enough to add in one last comment to the conversation, which, while not Potter-related, is still too good for him to pass up.)

Nine-Year-Old: “Hey… Why so serious?”

(I sent them both to get ready for bed once I could stop laughing long enough.)

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(My parents and I have a rocky relationship, and they think that everything in my life is fine, when sometimes it clearly isn’t. They know I’ve had clinical depression for years and they have only recently taken action to help me, which apparently they see as some sort of achievement. This takes place while my mom is driving me to school one day.)

Mom: “You know, sometimes I’m glad you have depression!”

Me: *confused* “What? Why?”

Mom: “Well, having depression makes you fun and interesting! Raising a normal kid would be boring!”

(At this point we were at my school and I got out, obviously upset and angry. Several weeks after the fact, I still don’t know what prompted her to say this, but she still stands by her words. Here’s the real kicker though: she and my dad still think that my brother and I are going to be living with them for a very long time. My 21 year old brother is planning on letting me move out with him when I turn 18, and I can finally say goodbye to that toxic household.)

(I am 16 and dance 50 hours a week, as well as being an honor student. I have four students to whom I am teaching solos. All consistently second place or better at competitions, sometimes getting first place out of their whole age group. I decide to open up a fifth slot for a student, because I figure I can manage another one. The mother of my first soloist has helped me recruit students, and because of being my first and helping me find students, I only charge her $15 an hour, compared to the other parents I charge $25. The mom accidentally lets it slip to a new recruit’s mom about her special price, and the following happens at the next tryout:)

Student’s Mom: “I heard you’re taking on another student.”

Me: *smiling* “That’s correct; despite my busy schedule I’ve decided I can take on another student.”

Student’s Mom: “Perfect. So [First Mom] said you will only charge me $15 an hour, correct?”

Me: *heart sinks to my stomach* “No, I actually charge $25 an hour.”

Student’s Mom: “Then why would she tell me $15?!”

Me: “I have been teaching her daughter for four years. She was my first soloist, and that is what I charged when I first started.”

Student’s Mom: “So, why does she get to keep that price!?”

Me: “Because she helped me get started.”

Student’s Mom: “That isn’t fair. You are what, 16? What makes you qualified to get $25 a hour?!”

Me: “Regardless of my age, ma’am, my dances win. Most teachers with a resume like mine are charging $50 an hour. I only charge $25 because I am younger.”

Student’s Mom: “But why do you get to charge that!?”

Me: “Ma’am, I am a busy person. I dance 50 hours a week myself, and I am an honor student, and my choreography wins. I have four other people who are interested in that slot and are fine with paying the $25. I am trying them out this weekend to find out if I can work with their student and them. So far, I can’t work with you, so your daughter is not worth my time.”

Student’s Mom: “Excuse me, young lady?!”

Me: “Ma’am. If my price is so outrageous, why are you still here trying to get me to teach your daughter?”

Student’s Mom: “Because your choreography wins!”

Me: “Exactly! I can charge $25 because my choreography is wanted. Now, $25 is my final price.”

Student’s Mom: “Fine. When can my daughter start?”

Me: “Never.”

Student’s Mom: “What?!“

Me: “I don’t work with divas, and if you’re like this, I can’t imagine how your daughter must be. Get out!”

(She left, muttering something under her breath about me being a b**** and arrogant and many other things. I found a student the next week who received choreography that won, and she ended up staying with me for two years. I don’t teach divas. I still won’t do so.)

(My mother is ordering something online for my grandpa’s birthday. My brother is looking over my mom’s shoulder.)

Mom: *enters zip code*

Brother: “Is that how old [Grandpa] is?”

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I have a day off so I wasn’t planning on doing much other than sleeping in. At about 9:30 am I get a call from my dad.)

Dad: “Hey, sweetie, are you doing anything at the moment?”

Me: *lying in bed* “No, not anything important. What’s up?”

Dad: “The coolant hose has come loose on the car again. Could I get you to come pick me up to get some more coolant?”

Me: “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

(I go and get him, chatting about inconsequential things, asking about each others’ weekends. We get the coolant and we are heading back to his car. This happens about half an hour after I pick him up.)

Dad: “Yeah, I wasn’t feeling that great this morning… About an hour ago I started getting chest pain and was thinking I should go to the hospital, but I’m feeling okay now so maybe I should just go home.”

Me: *being skeptical in my head* “Nah, if you were worried, Dad, I’d go up there. I will go with you if you’d like. I’ll stay with you. It can get kinda boring up there by yourself.”

Dad: “Oh, well, only if you’re not doing anything. It might be a good idea.”

Me: “Sure thing; it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Dad: “Only if you’re sure you’re not doing anything

Me: “I’m sure; I will meet you up there.”

(I follow him up only to find a parking space at the bottom of the hill, so we walk up to the top and get admitted into ED. Long story short, Dad had had a minor heart attack, three in fact, the last one as we were walking up the hill, and he just wanted to go home. I spent five hours with him, him asking me not to tell any family members because he didn’t want to stress them out. Mum nearly had a heart attack herself when she found out, mainly because he waited five hours to tell her! Please, please, people — get it checked out sooner rather than later!)