I'm going to be pensive... brace yourself.
When I was about 14, my Mom and Dad redecorated my room. I had a huge room in the house we lived in. Basically, when I moved out, my first apartment was the same size. My room was monstrous. Mom and Dad wanted to surprise me so they waited until I was out of town and then redecorated in their spare time.
Now, I must remind you, I was 14. I was an unhappy little bitch who wore a black T-shirt that reached my knees under everything I owned. I was opinionated and independent and had strict ideas of what I liked and didn't.
When I came home, Mom and Dad brought me down to my room. Looking back, I can see them waiting with anticipation and hope. They did it with great amounts of love and dedication. They wanted me to be happy and have a space of my own. I see that now. At the time? All I saw was that they had done something too me.
The wallpaper was a pale white with mint green splashes. The main wall had salmon coloured stripes over top of the mint green splashes. The chair rail was painted white as was the bottom half of the room. On the one wall was a cross-stitched thing my Mom had done. A poem with my name in it and butterflies.
I hated it. (To this day, I still hate it - it was my two most hated colours on earth, but that is besides the point.) I told them I hated it. I don't remember this, but I imagine them sagging in defeat and hurt. I imagine Mom crying later on at how ungrateful I could be. I imagine Dad saying they should just rip it all down and make me live in a barren space with remnants of it as a reminder. But they didn't. They didn't say a word about it or my attitude towards it. I think they knew what would happen.
When Mom got sick and was in hospital for one of her many visits, my siblings and I repainted her kitchen. We worked steady for three or four days to get it all done. When Dad was bringing her home, I remember standing in the kitchen and hoping that she would love it because I had done it for her. To show my love for her. That is when I realized what I had done to them when I was 14.
Mom loved what we had done to her kitchen. Or, at least, she said she did. She knew what effort we had put into it and that we did it to show our love for her - our support for her in a situation we could do nothing to alter. This was our way. I apologized to her repeatedly after this - telling her that I regretted being so horrible to her and Dad when all they were doing was trying to show their love to me. I know she knew I was sorry. But I still am furious at that 14 year old.