Cereal again. I’m trying this new sugar-free muesli. Muesli always reminds me of my dad. How he always used to pour me a bowl when I visited him, before he left for work. When I was a kid, I dished out my own cereal. But as an adult, as a guest in his home, it would all be waiting for me there on the counter: a bowl half-full of muesli, a selection of vitamins. I think even a spoon? A banana. It was comforting in a way, having it all prepared for me, beckoning. But then, there was something instructive about it, something rigid. This was probably exactly the amount of muesli he ate, the same vitamins he took, accompanied by the same portion of fruit. This was exactly like our conversations. Am I supposed to be like him? Ignore my own appetite, my body, my preferences and tastes? I wonder if he was fed this way. I wonder who taught him. Because my family is a tightening net, a pulling-under, as I struggle to the surface, and gasp for…something else. They are a cascade of bubbles sinking behind me. And control…control is not love.