Harper Lee once said, “You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.”
If I could, I’d choose a woman with Gwyneth Paltrow dietary habits, Diane Keaton style and Whoopi Goldberg levels of fun.
Or, you know, the woman I came out of because she’s 10/10 too.
But our relationship hasn’t always been 10/10 and when I moved out at the tender age of 18, I would have rated it a solid six — on a good day.
There are only so many times one can stand having a dishcloth and bottle of Windex thrown at them at 7am on a Sunday before losing it. Something needed to change, but I took the easy option and moved out.
Five years later I found myself climbing the stairs I had so proudly jumped down. I’d taken a new job and relocated back to my home city… and back to Mum.
It’s now been four months and things couldn’t be better.
Mum thinks it's a miracle and that my time out of home was the transformative equivalent of 20 years in a hard labour camp. It's not. It's just that I learned one word: "OK."