Boobs, Beef Stew, And Bullshit

 I can’t remember what year it was, but Tristan was still young. Me and my wifey Kat were out Christmas shopping. I had moved back in with Aunt Robin again. We had just finished getting for all the kids and stuff. We went to the food court at the outlets in Riverhead and were just eating, talking about something—hell if I can remember what—but somehow, we ended up on Aunt Robin.

And Kat goes, “We have to get that old bitch a present.”

I told her, “What we even gonna get her? She’s so picky.”

She said, “Well, think of something.”

We were headed to Lids, the hat store, to pick up something Kat had ordered, and I had the best fucking idea ever—we had to get her one of those winter hats with the little pom‑pom balls on top. She’d look ridiculous in it, but she’d love it. Kat agreed. We were picking it out, and then she starts laughing so hard I thought she was gonna piss herself.

She goes, “What if we get them to stitch something on it? Like lettering.”

I just looked at her like, Bitch, what are you cooking up right now?

She said, "We have to.”

And I already knew. I said, “We can’t. They probably won’t even write that on there.”

She goes, “Doesn’t hurt to ask.” And then she made me ask. Of course she did.

So, I’m standing there asking this poor teenage boy if they could embroider “imma shit on your face” on a hat for my aunt. The look on his face. I thought I was gonna fucking die from embarrassment. But, sure as shit, they did it. Everyone working there cracked up. And that hat? That shit was legendary.

Come Christmas morning, we did the family thing and all that, and then Kat showed up. Me and her were being so damn obvious. Aunt Robin had that look like, I’m watching you bitches. Like she was expecting something to explode.

She opened the bag. At first, she looked relieved—probably thinking we actually got her something sweet. And then she saw it. That hat. That loud-ass embroidery. And she turned bright fucking red. Just sat there staring at it. And then—she lost it. Just started laughing, full-body, uncontrollable Aunt Robin laughter. “I fucking love you guys,” she said.

She wore it that whole day. Never again—but who the hell would? Still, she kept it. It’s probably in some closet right now. A beanie from her niece and her niece’s best friend that says “imma shit on your face.” Who else has that?

And what’s even better is how that phrase even started. Her and Kat always went back and forth with each other, nonstop shit-talking. One day Kat must’ve hit a wall and couldn’t think of a comeback, and out of nowhere she says, “imma shit on your face.” Aunt Robin just stopped, stared at her like, what the actual fuck did you just say to me, and then busted out laughing. That was it. It stuck. Became a staple. You couldn’t go a week without hearing it between them after that.

Me and Kat gave her a lot of laughs. Another night we were out drinking, came home late as hell, and Aunt Robin had locked the door. We had to break in through my bedroom window—one of those under-level windows, like in the ground with a dug-out space. You should’ve seen us. Two drunk girls trying to climb down into a dirt hole like stealthy raccoons. But we made it. And we were starving.

And then I remembered—Aunt Robin had made her beef stew. Not just stew. Her stew. No one makes that shit like she does. No one. I got so excited I almost cried.

We snuck (so loud I'm surprised we didn't wake them) up the stairs, tripping over ourselves, found the crockpot in the fridge, and said fuck it—we just carried the whole damn thing back down. Ate every last bite. And then I panicked. I was like, "shit, she’s gonna kill us."

Kat’s big idea? Leave the empty crockpot outside Corey’s door. Make it look like he did it. I forgot one tiny detail—Corey doesn’t even eat that stew. Next morning, we creep upstairs like nothing happened, and Aunt Robin just hits us with, “Nice try, girls.” We looked dumb as hell. She just laughed. Called us idiots. But you could tell she loved it.

That’s Aunt Robin. She’s laughs and memories and food and love and home.

Even when I was a drunk mess—calling her slurring, unable to talk—she answered. Every time. I know she hated it. I know it broke her to hear me like that. But she still picked up. Even if it was just to yell at me. And yeah, people yelled at me all the time. Told me to stop drinking, get my shit together. But it didn’t hit the same when it was anyone else. With Aunt Robin, it was different. Her voice held love—even when she was cussing me out.

She was the one who told me she was proud of me when I got sober. Proud that I actually did it. That I meant it. That I was showing up for Tristan. When the fight with Adam happened—and she thought I had relapsed—it fucking hit me hard.

It was like she reached into the center of me and yanked something out.

I asked her, “Do you really think I’d go back to that?”

And she said, “What was I supposed to think?”

And fuck, she wasn’t wrong. I had disappeared. I hadn’t called. I pulled away. But it still felt like a betrayal. She knew what I went through to get sober. What I gave up. What I suffered through. I fought tooth and nail to get out of that hole for Tristan. And she knew that. But, for her to doubt me—that hurt more than I could have ever imagined.

And I lashed out. Not just at her. At Adam. At anyone who looked at me sideways. I blacked out. Said shit I don’t even remember. Because that pain—of being doubted by the one person who always believed in me—it was like a knife in the back.

And it was already a fucking war zone. Tristan had stopped liking the word “no.” He realized he couldn’t manipulate me like before, couldn’t get what he wanted just by demanding it. He started running his mouth to anyone who would listen—telling his side of the story, trying to make me out to be unfit. Trying to get someone to let him move in with them. Trying to run again. But I wasn’t letting him. That’s how he ended up with me in the first place—I refused to let him keep avoiding life. I needed him to learn to sit in discomfort. To face real consequences. He’s seventeen—about to be an adult—and the way he was acting? Not acceptable.

But instead of calling me and asking what the hell was going on, they just believed him. Came at me with, “He’s not happy. Just sign the papers. Let him move in with me.”

Bull. Fucking Shit.

What teenager is ever happy with their parents?

So, I snapped. Years of pain, exhaustion, and holding the line all came out at once. And that’s the version of me Aunt Robin saw. Not the sober mother holding boundaries—but the daughter she thought had slipped again.

And yeah—I shut down after that. I didn’t reach out. I figured she wouldn’t answer. And I didn’t want to confirm that. Thinking she’d reject me and knowing she would are two entirely different kinds of hell.

And I felt so fucking alone. I always do—even when I’m not. But Aunt Robin is the one person who, even from hours away, can make that feeling fade. She’s hugs and sass and home. She’s warmth and judgment and safety all rolled into one giant boob-hug.

I remember this one time—I had just gotten dressed, and I felt something bite me. I thought it was a flea. Went to scratch and felt something stuck in me. I freaked the fuck out. Ran upstairs screaming, “Kevin, don’t look! Aunt Robin! Aunt Robin, I have a tick on my ass! What do I do? Help me!”

Her and Kenvin were laughing their asses off. I’m in a full panic, pants down, ass out, yelling at Kevin not to look while trying to get Aunt Robin to stop laughing long enough to get the damn thing off me. And eventually, she did. But not before making sure she got a good laugh out of it.

She’s been my safe person for a long time—even when she’s being a smartass. Even when she’s pissed.

And then this one night, Thomas asked me, out of nowhere, “How’s Aunt Robin?”

Knowing damn well I hadn’t talked to her.

Maybe he was being a dick. Maybe he was trying to push me. Either way, it worked. Because I picked up my phone and texted her:

“Are we still fighting?”

She answered in the most Aunt Robin way possible:

“Are you still being a dick?”

And I cried.

That text meant everything. It meant she was still her. That we were still us.

She’s one of the rare ones who gives unconditional love. No matter how many times I fuck up. No matter how bad I fall. She’s always there with a sarcastic remark and a wide-open heart. And when I apologize, she accepts it. And she means it. She doesn’t throw it back in my face later. She doesn’t keep score.

Now she texts me every day. And it’s the consistency that breaks me.

Because she didn’t just say she’d always be there—she is. And that kind of steady? I don’t have that anywhere else. Not like this. She keeps showing up for me, even when I can’t always show up the same way. I try. I always answer—even if it’s just, “I’m okay.” Because I never want her to worry. I couldn’t do that to her.

She once told me, “You’re a man trapped in a woman’s body.” LMAO. It was a joke—but also not. I was raised with eight boy cousins. I’m the oldest. Only girl. I did what the boys did. Still do. I build shit. I fix shit. I know my way around an engine. I watch football. I cuss like I breathe. But I also like getting my nails done, throwing on some lipstick, and looking hot as hell when I want to. I don’t fit in a box—and Aunt Robin never tried to shove me into one. She never asked me to be softer. Never made me feel like I had to change.

She saw me. And she loved me.

And I love her too.

Every damn day.