I vividly remember that day I proclaimed to my mum that when I was a real grown up, I would move out of home and into a house with my best friend. Being eight years old, Samantha and I were frantically planning our future including which beautiful home we would live in, what kind of super cool car we would drive and how we would end up having careers as popstars or fashion designers.
I was in the car with my mum a few streets away from our house when I confessed my grand plan and began pointing out the exact house Samantha and I had decided we would live in. It was on the corner of a residential street and a main road. It was built with light cream brick, had huge glass windows and a front yard filled with wafty trees.
I went on to detail all of the brilliant things we would do when she suddenly interjected.
“You won’t be moving out of home until you get married,” my mum said as she sharply inhaled, “So no, you won’t be moving out with Samantha,” she continued with a deep exhale.
A bit taken aback I tried to argue the point, but she wasn’t having a bar of it and that was well and truly the end of that the conversation. That was the first time I became brutally aware of the fact that my relationship with my mum was very different to the relationship my friend’s had with theirs.
Growing up in Australia with first generation immigrant parents, those differences would become more obvious and more frequent as I grew up. And they particularly came to a head when I hit high school.