A Door To Nowhere

Days left: 37

Today is my Grandma Dorika's deathday party, and this year – her sixteenth time celebrating it – has seen her biggest turn-out to date.

The living room is crowded with people. Some have dressed sombrely for the occasion, in long black dresses and sharp dark suits. Others have made a statement in a clash of colour: I catch sight of my Auntie Jean in the doorway, draped in a shock of hot pink and neon orange. It would be an understatement to say that Dorika's deathday parties are difficult to dress for.

She rushes past me now, her olive skin crinkling in annoyance around her dark eyes. 'The food, Aurora,' she scolds me. 'The piskόta needs fetching from the oven. Go and pass some around.'

She waves me towards the kitchen. I sigh, and turn for the door. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember; even as a small child, I was employed as a party waitress, passing around countless trays of traditional Hungarian food that no-one could ever finish. My brother, Oliver, has never been subjected to this, and I'm guessing it's based entirely on the fact that a) he's a boy, and b) he's still a baby in her eyes, despite the fact that he's only three years younger than me.

I push my way through the sprawl of chattering guests, and into Dorika's little kitchen. You could build a forest with the amount of pine panelling going on in here, but my Grandma has refused to modernize it. It's been this way since Grandpa Dennis died ten years ago.

Both my Mum and Dad are stood in the corner, surrounded by a few great aunts and uncles that I've never really met before. From the way my Mum is angrily yanking a pie out of the oven, it's clear they're in the middle of another argument. Dad shakes his head, muttering to something she snaps at him.

My heart sinks, and I wander over to them, trying to look as cheery as possible. Which – when you're attending your only Grandma's deathday party – is quite a difficult feat to accomplish.

'Hey,' Dad says, brightening up considerably as he spots me. 'Out of kuglόf already? Your Mum's just made some more.'

I attempt a smile, pretending not to notice the icy tension hanging between them. Dorika is my Dad's mother, and they share the same tanned skin and dark eyes. He's currently going through some kind of mid-life crisis where he only wears glam-rock band t-shirts, and is refusing to cut his hair.

Mum turns around, and glares at him. 'I don't care about the kuglόf. I care about my father, and you're trying to get rid of him.'

Dad leans back on the counter, exasperated. 'I am not trying to get rid of him. Linda, be reasonable – he needs round-the-clock care. We can't do that for him. We both work, the kids are at school-'

'Are you trying to say that Rory and Oliver should be looking after him?' Mum hisses. 'They're just kids, Adam. I can reduce my hours with my clients. The gym won't mind, and then my Dad won't be left on his own.'

Dad shakes his head, his long hair flicking out around his neck. 'You know we can't afford to do that, Linda. We're struggling as it is-'

'I'm going to go and pass some food around,' I interrupt, grabbing a plate between them from the counter. 'Grandma's getting stressed because the neighbours ate all the sandwiches.'

I back away hurriedly, relief flooding through me as I re-enter the living room. It's been this way for months – endless arguments over my Grandad Albert, the fact we have no money, that my Dad seems to be on a one-man crusade to bring the 80s back. I glance back at Mum, and almost laugh at how odd the two of them look together. Her perfectly bleached blonde hair falls down around her shoulders, matching the silky gold of her dress. Beside her, my Dad looks like he's been sleeping on the streets for a week.