The NeverEnding Trauma

My wife and I are visiting my brother and his wife (born in Germany). We’re outside enjoying some drinks when we realize we haven’t heard from the kids (four of them, two from each couple) for a while.

Sister-In-Law: “Oh yeah, I just threw on an old movie. They love it.”

My Wife: *Knowing our youngest can be a bit sensitive.* “Uh… what movie?”

Sister-In-Law: “It’s one from when I was young. Don’t worry; it’s very family friendly.”

My Wife: “That’s great, but what movie?”

Sister-In-Law: “Die unendliche Geschichte, so in English that is…”

Me: “…The NeverEnding Story.”

Looking at the time, the rest of us realize in horror that they must be at the halfway mark. I lock eyes with my wife and my brother. All three of us say in unison:

Me, Wife, Brother: “Artax!”

We all race into the living room, but we’re too late. The kids are blubbering wrecks, now full of as much sadness and despair as the Artax the horse, succumbing to the same emotions as he drowns in the swamps of sadness, perishes on screen.

Wife: “Welp… another generation ruined by that movie.”

Brother: “The cycle of trauma continues.”

Sister-In-Law: “I don’t understand… It’s just a movie.”

Me: *As my seven-year-old blows snotty tears into my chest.* “That movie kept therapists in America employed all through the eighties.”

They seemed to be okay once we gave them all ice cream… but man, I did NOT need to relive that childhood memory…