Sentimental Value

I barely witnessed my parents’ marriage. Being so young, I couldn’t comprehend — nor couldn’t be enlightened as to — why they filed for divorce. The same day everything got sorted out, my dad and I started this (unpleasant) journey of driving around with our packed SUV, discovering whose relatives’ homes we could crash at, since we couldn’t afford to rent an apartment for ourselves. ¿“Adonde vamos a dormir, pa?” is the first question my 5-year-old self made him, which haunts him to this day.  “Did you stop loving each other?” became another repetitive question (together with: “When will you get back together?”), until it wasn’t. I had just turned 18 when the most revealing but honest conversation with my dad happened, which put together the blurry puzzle pieces that represented our bond, since many had gotten lost in translation as distance grew between us. Although brutally disclosing and necessary, it opened the door for an unfathomable amount of doubts and “realizations” that struck me as the days (and family drama) went by. Having two houses seemed fun at first: double the presents, double the beds, double the pets, and so on… But, as you grow up, you start understanding the true flaws of it, the missed moments: vacations, holidays, birthdays, school musicals, sports competitions… Turns out that, a year later after that conversation, I had an epiphany: I didn’t really know my dad at all. To say that it made me tear up is an understatement, precisely because it had to do with decisions he took over which I had no say. My father has always had trouble socializing, even with his children. I can’t complain about how he raised me, at all, but it hurts to admit that I barely have knowledge regarding even the most basic interests of his. Even though our stories are different, I painfully relate to Nora. I am the youngest child of three, with two non-identical twin sisters who were, are and will always be inseparable. As much as I would love to say that it is great not being an only child, I can’t, because it has always felt like I am. My sisters have always had each other —just like Agnes had Nora— unlike me, who, despite having their company everyday, has never had a close companion to rely on. “Never an only child but always an only child” is the only way I can think of how to describe my situation. This particular aspect of my life is why that bedroom scene feels so personal. I know exactly how hard it is to go through parental crises all alone. I know exactly how it feels to be the peacemaker in the family while still aching for not being heard nor seen when it came to my own issues. I know exactly how it feels for everything (and everyday) to make you want to disappear.  That’s exactly why this film has left a mark on me. Joachim’s near invisible directing — the pauses and unresolved tensions in the silence — mirrored the way I’ve tiptoed around my dad (and life itself) for years. My story is different, no doubt about that (and honestly, thank God). But the feeling? The feeling of rejection and imposed distance transitioning into a feeling of initiative and forgiveness? The feeling of conservatism turning into an open book of confessions? Uncomfortably close to home.  A soul-shattering ending. Thank you, Joachim.