An old story that happened to me after another drunken at the entrance of the house:
Drunk I went home. Having difficulty opening the door of the apartment, not without difficulty taking off the upper clothes, concentrating on not falling in the room where the ancestors sleep, morally preparing for the long journey to my room, I opened the door.
There was silence in the hall and the lights were turned off, the couch was unfolded, the ancestors lay quietly, only the television blinked blinkingly broadcasting some shit from the federal channel. Taking all the will in my fist, small steps, holding the closet, then almost falling on the floor, I rounded their couch, bypassing the door to my room, moved toward the TV. Crawling to the zombie box, bending to avoid creating a shadow that would fall on their eyes and disrupt their sleep, I turned it off, that God would not let it wake them up until I walked to my room.
Ten years later, my father still thinks I’m a drug addict. They did not sleep that night.