My aunt Helena

When I went to live with my aunt, I thought it would be like in the movies: a serious person, full of rules and schedules. But I soon discovered that she was a strange mix of a responsible adult, an 80-year-old lady, and a 12-year-old child.
She kept asking me if I had drunk water, taken a jacket, and eaten properly. At the same time, she would forget where she had put her own glasses, even when they were on her head.
The house was organized, full of books, plants, and mugs scattered in the most random places possible. And every time I needed help with something, she seemed to have a ready answer, as if she had researched it five minutes earlier.
Sometimes she would complain about my messes, but as soon as I showed up sad, she would appear with a snack, some advice, or a bad joke to make me laugh.
Over time, I realized that living with her was like having a second mother, a best friend, and a gossipy aunt all at the same time.
And even though I would never admit it to her face, I really liked living there.
He just didn't need to ask me three times a day if I'd drunk water yet.