I don't think I've ever been comfortable in my grandparents' house.
It's beautiful, not a speck of dust anywhere. Decorated with knickknacks that must have meant something to someone, but hold nearly no sentimental value to my grandma.
For some reason, the house makes me feel out of place and scrutinized. The air is filled with the remnants of all the rude conversations, mildly racist and sexist remarks, and gossip my family makes in the safety of their own home, and the walls hold up all of my grandparents' conservative views of Christianity, homophobia, and gender roles. The lofty ceiling bears down with a judgmental gaze when I eat with my hands or forget to take my shoes off. My grandparents share that gaze secretly, but they don't realize I'm perceptive enough to notice.
I love Grandma and Grandpa dearly, don't get me wrong. But I know that this world is not the world they grew up in, not a world that they are ready to accept in all its views. So I refrain from preaching my feminist, equality-driven sermons, because I know they won't care. I won't bother trying to get them to be good, progressive people of this time, because they already are good people in the views of their time.
And I know that any of my more liberal views will push us apart, and make my parents seem like the people to blame for my sinful opinions.
So I will let them live the rest of their life in peace, and I'll just let them be.
But of course, I'll never feel perfectly fine under their roof.
