Today was a taxing day for me. After my daily shift ended, I plunged into the task of baking a red velvet cake. The cake was for my younger sister, who just turned 12, and I wanted everything to be perfect, from its regal color to its fluffy texture.

Sinking hours into the preparation, I was quite proud of the outcome. However, the day turned sour when my mom came rushing into the kitchen. She has this compulsive habit—my family suspects it might be OCD—of tidying up constantly, although for her, it seems to be more about hygiene than mere neatness.

Whilst rearranging the contents of the fridge in her typical frenzy, she accidentally knocked my painstakingly crafted cake onto the floor. I stood frozen, anticipating her reaction which would set the tone for mine. Hoping for at least an apologetic word, I was dismayed when instead she erupted, berating me for being careless and extending her irritation inexplicably to my other three siblings.

Overwhelmed, I retreated to the bathroom and tears came, a release I haven't sought in years. It might sound silly, but it provided a momentary relief. Meanwhile, the chaos continued in the kitchen. My two older siblings attempted to mediate, offering her a different perspective. Rather than calming down, she defensively shouted back, suggesting somehow the blunder was my doing.

Further pressed, she shouted louder, "So is this my fault?" Her voice broke, revealing a hint of emotion that made me feel unexpectedly guilty.

She continued ranting about how fortunate I was that it was her who made this mistake as anyone else might have left the mess. Knowing her well, apologies were off the table; she has never uttered one in my 16 years. What I yearned for, more than anything, was that simple acknowledgment of error.

Abandoning the situation, I left the cake and the chaos on the kitchen floor, feeling somewhat guilty as she was left to clean up alone, possibly fueling her anger.

If this scene were unraveling in a reality show, the cameras would zoom in on the fallen cake, capturing every angle of the disaster and every ounce of emotion in our expressions. Such dramatic moments are a staple in those shows, and I wonder, would the audience sympathize with my plight or would they judge my reaction? Would the public's view influence her behavior, seeing as audiences sometimes sway what occurs onscreen? It’s something to ponder—how the presence of an audience might alter our familial dramas.

Given this tense situation, I often question if I was wrong for just walking away. Should I have stayed and confronted the mess and the emotions head-on?

Should I have cleaned up the cake myself?

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