When I tried to run away from home, you didn't even yell at me when I came back. You seemed to understand why I would, and, that week, you actually tried to clean. You didn't manage to throw anything out after all, but it was okay. I knew you were sick, too.

Is it sad to say I sometimes find comfort in it? How, even my Mother, so different from I, could be unwell in a way I could understand? It reminds me we're really family. No matter where I go, or who I become, I'll always be your son.

We will always be united in our sickness.