I watch my dad lift his fork to his mouth, anticipating the agony I will soon feel. Ever since I was little, family dinners were deeply rooted in the discomfort of my family’s eating habits. Everyone in my family has an overbite except for me. This means that none of them can comfortably close their mouths while chewing. So as it’s not their fault, I must sit there and steep in my anger, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it. 

I’ve built an obsession with keeping my mouth closed and chewing in the quietest and most efficient way I can, so naturally, it’s terrible when something I hold myself to such a high standard in is completely ignored by every single one of the six other people in my family. Sometimes I find myself trying to justify my trivial pursuit of chewing perfection, only to realize how truly small this act is. My family will never stop chewing the way they do, just like I will never stop brooding and silently seething every time we eat together. 

What’s worse, my youngest sister and brother know of my pet peeve. They find great joy in creating ways to bother me without alerting my parents to their shenanigans. Every time I call them out, the blame only befalls me. “You’re the oldest,” they say, “You should be more mature than them.” These are the words I’ve come to hate so deeply. It’s not my lack of maturity that creates this quarrel, but the lack of justice that my siblings have received. 

So now, as I enter my house after my extracurricular activities only to see my family sitting at the table, I silently put my stuff away and sit. Watching, waiting, dreading when my dad will take his first bite, signaling my family’s symphony of chewing. Maybe one day, I will finally be able to eat in peace.