The Friday before Easter is called Good Friday. The problem is that every Good Friday since I was ten years old, always been a bad Friday. I would like to say that it is because of the death of Jesus on the cross that makes this day bad. However, it is never that simple.
It always happens during the Triduum where my mom would throw a hissy fit. Not only would she be angry or annoy at something stupid, but insist that it is fault of my dad, my sister and I. Perhaps I genuflected wrong or my dad didn’t signaled while changing lanes; whatever the reason, I always dread Good Friday. It was depressing and painful.
Today is the third Good Friday since I have moved out. I still dread this day.