The kin turned up only after I had raised a cottage by the sea.
I was born in a tiny village in the Midlands, and now I am twentytwo. My father and mother passed away not long ago, and with their deaths I felt free to leave my little homeland behind. Their funerals were modest, for hardly any of the many siblings they had came to bid them farewell.
When the rites were over, every relative hurried off to some urgent business. May God watch over them. After the services I decided it was best to depart, for the memories were too sharp to bear.
Life in my birthplace had never been easy. It started back at grammar school, where I was constantly taken advantage of by the lads in my class. After university and a first job, I remained the perpetual boytobeblamed for my bosses. I thought it over and, seeking a fresh start, sold my parents house and set out for a better life on the coast. There I bought a modest plot of land and built a home of onehundred and fifty square metres.
When the building was finished I snapped photographs of the house and posted them on the various social networks. During the construction I called many of my relatives for advice, but they all claimed they knew nothing, offering not a shred of help or even a useful word of counsel.
When summer arrived, all of my kin started ringing, saying they intended to spend the holidays by the sea and asking if they might stay in my cottage for the season. I could have agreed, but why?
When my parents were laid to rest my relatives hadnt managed to come, and no one helped me financially; they told me they were barely keeping their heads above water. Yet now they were planning a holiday at my place, a luxury that was hardly cheap.
That summer I learned that I did indeed have a large family, that they loved me and missed me dearly. Even former schoolmates began writing, flattering me, calling me wonderful, and asking when they could visit.
I grew weary of their hypocrisy. I posted on the networks that it was my innocent delusion or dream, whichever you prefer. Then I shared a picture of my humble cottage and claimed I had lost all the money from my parents house, which is why I could afford only that modest dwelling, and I added that I longed for visitors who might perhaps help mend the place. As soon as I did, my relatives and friends vanished again, citing urgent matters, and it turned out they were as penniless as church mice.
Now I wonder: why are people so twofaced, and why is the world so cruel? I lie now in the sunshine on the beach, thinking of posting those pictures on my site. Yet I decided I would not wave a red flag before the bull and stir envy. Perhaps next year I will share a picture of my true home, just to see how my family fares.
