Understand. And Love.
We’re here. And we care.
I found out I was adopted when I was around 14 years of age. It was one of those incidents that you stumble upon purely by chance. I was in our living room when I happened to stumble upon these papers. They declared that the people I’d come to love and know as my parents weren’t actually my parents.
If you ask me how I felt that day I would tell you I didn’t know actually. Part of me did not believe it. Part of me was lost. I mean why did my parents give me up? Where did I belong? Who were my real parents? I just did not know how to feel back then. I mean I was only a kid.
Cooking is an art. I can give you a recipe, tell you exactly how I made it, with all the right ingredients but I can tell you right now, you will not be able to replicate it.
It’s about the texture, the pattern, the way I make it. All these things make the dish something that no matter how hard you try, impossible to replicate. There will always be a difference.
Someday I want to be a chef. To pay for my father’s expenses we’ve had to rely on my cousins and other family members. Someday, soon, I want to start earning so that my family does not need to worry about anything anymore.
My adoptive father has cancer. Terminal. I can tell you this now, give it to you in writing that he would die in another 2 years. How do I cry for small irrelevant things? Like a tiny break up. Don’t get me wrong. I did cry. But I felt guilty.
If I cry now, after the breakup, bawl my eyes out, what happens in two years. My parents, they’ve taken me in. Think about it. If I cry now about such irrelevant things, two years later when something happens to my father, what then?
Who’ll take care of my mother when she needs someone? Who’ll take care of my family? I need to be stronger for the things that are about to happen and will happen. Tiny irrelevant things like a breakup are not worth crying over.
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