I don’t usually drink wine in the bathroom.
But there I was. On the floor, next to Albert’s bath toys, cradling a very full glass of red like it was the only living thing that understood me.
Outside the door, silence. But the bad kind. The polite kind. The kind of silence Spanish mothers use when they’re disappointed in you and don’t want to say it out loud but are absolutely saying it with their eyes, eyebrows, and the way they over-wipe the table.
Let’s rewind.
JC’s parents were coming to stay. Three nights. “Just a short visit,” he said, like we weren’t housing emotional landmines in every room. They hadn’t seen Albert in person for six months, and every video call ended with his mother saying “He seems calmer in the videos.” As if buffering had cured autism.
I prepped. Cleaned things that haven’t been cleaned since the Rajoy administration. I even made that weird cod and spinach dish his mother swears by, the one that smells like a monastery and tastes like fishy guilt.
They arrived mid-afternoon. JC’s dad carried a bag of oranges and looked vaguely startled, like he’d just remembered I existed. His mum went straight into the kitchen and made a clicking sound with her tongue — the universal Catalan signal for “this cupboard arrangement offends me.”
Albert was in his room with headphones on, building his hundredth Lego tower and saying “no visitors today” in the flattest tone known to man.
And you know what? That could’ve been fine. We could’ve eased in. Smiled. Let him take his time. But no. She went in. JC’s mum. Full of “abuelita energy” and unsolicited hugs.
He screamed.
She froze.
I flinched.
JC tried to explain. She waved him off. “He just needs structure.”
I muttered something about not touching him without warning. She blinked like I’d spoken Flemish.
It got worse. JC’s dad turned on the TV — full volume, football match. Albert lost it. Fled to the balcony and tried to climb into the olive tree. I followed, obviously, but not fast enough for anyone’s liking.
Then came dinner.
She tried to serve him. He wouldn’t touch the plate. She frowned. “In my day, we didn’t get choices.”
JC stared into his wine glass like he was hoping to drown.
Albert knocked over a chair trying to escape the room.
She turned to me — calm, smiling — and said,
“You know, Annie. I think he just needs firmer boundaries. Children sense weakness.”
And that’s when I stood up.
And walked out.
And locked myself in the bathroom.
Not stormed. Just… floated. Like my body said, we’re done here, and drifted off in search of tile and solitude. I took the wine with me. And three stale biscuits from Albert’s emergency stash.
I sat there. On the cold floor. Listening. Nothing. Then JC, soft knocking.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to come out?”
“No.”
“I’ll make you a gin and tonic?”
“…maybe.”
Eventually, I did open the door. But only because I heard something that sounded like laughter. Not JC. Not his mum. Albert.
In the living room, Albert was sitting next to JC’s dad — who was showing him how to peel an orange without breaking the skin. I don’t know why that’s the thing that got through. But it did. Albert was giggling. JC’s dad was laser-focused, like he was defusing a bomb made of citrus.
And JC’s mum? She was folding laundry that didn’t need folding. But her face had softened. Just a little.
We survived the visit. Barely.
I still don’t regret locking that door.
But next time, I’m putting a chair under the handle and bringing snacks.