I don't remember much back then. You know how memory works when you're still a toddler? Blurry lights, soft colors, smells you don't understand, and voices that echo like gods talking through megaphones. But I do remember feeling something. The day felt new. Like life itself pressed a big, shiny reset button and whispered to the world, "Here's a fresh start."
A new day for hope.
A new day for joy.
A new day for laughter and prayers and sunshine and—
Wait no. Forget all that.
Fourth wall break incoming. Look, if you've read manga, seen anime, or sat through those overly sentimental "family slice of life" movies where the camera pans to the sunlight kissing the curtains while soft piano music plays—yeah, you'd expect that kind of perfect beginning, right? WRONG. In our family, things went missing. Furniture would break for no reason. Appliances started malfunctioning like they were haunted. Heck, even the dog next door barked in Morse code for help. Murphy's Law? Please. Murphy's Law envied my life. Everything that could go wrong didn't just go wrong—it exploded in flames, fell off a cliff, and got run over by a marching band. Call me crazy, but that's just life when you're the King of Misfortune.
Back then, we had dozens of maids. Yes, dozens. Being rich meant we could afford it. Or well... my parents were rich back then. Past tense. But despite all that money? No maid ever lasted long. I'm not even exaggerating—on average, no one made it through a full day. Some didn't even last an hour. One of them literally quit during orientation because the chair she sat on suddenly caught fire. Spontaneously. I swear.
But among them all... there was Nana.
Ah, Nana. My old nanny. A legend. A warrior. A survivor.
Among the sea of fallen comrades in aprons and bonnets, she stood tall. Well, not tall. She was short. And very round. But she stood proud. Out of every maid and nanny we ever hired, she was the only one who managed to survive under the roof of this cursed estate for an entire month. One whole month.
That may not sound like much to you, but in our house, that was like breaking the world record in the Olympics while blindfolded and riding a unicycle on a tightrope. In a hurricane. While on fire.
Despite her old age, she had the energy of ten horses, three teenagers on sugar highs, and one overcaffeinated squirrel. She wasn't just a nanny—she was a force of nature. If you took every other maid we hired and mashed their stamina into one person, it still wouldn't match Nana.
Fourth wall break: but of course, like every character in this messed-up autobiography of mine, even she wasn't safe from the curse. Yeah, my curse.
I remember it clearly. We were on vacation abroad, staying at one of our out-of-town villas. You know, trying to escape the weird streak of unfortunate events. Spoiler alert: misfortune is a carry-on luggage. You can't escape it.
That day, Nana was doing her usual routine—cleaning, humming an old folk song, babysitting me while pushing a massive mop across the hall like it owed her money. Then she spotted the stairs.
Dun dun DUNNN.
Oh, the stairs. Mortal enemy of maids. Eternal trap of the unlucky. The slanted slide of destiny.
She stepped on the first one. Confident. Heroic.
Second step. Determined.
Third step. Suddenly slippery.
And then—whoosh.
Down she went.
Not just a tumble. No. This was a full-on cinematic slow-motion barrel roll. Her body twisted in ways the human spine wasn't meant to twist. It was like watching a washing machine in the middle of a gymnastics routine. And she was not a small woman. Every time she hit a step, it was like a localized earthquake. I swear I saw a flower vase explode in the living room from the shockwave.
She rolled. She flipped.
And then—BAM. Face first into the marble floor.
But wait, it gets better.
Because remember—she was cleaning. So all her tools—broom, dustpan, rag, feather duster, spray bottle, mop, sponge, bucket—all came crashing down like judgment from the heavens. One by one. Clang. Smack. Splat. The mop hit her like a whip. The feather duster got stuck in her ear. The bucket? Landed square on her butt. I was watching the whole thing with the wide, unblinking eyes of a toddler witnessing a miracle. Or a tragedy. Depends on your sense of humor.
She spent the rest of that day lying on the couch with ice packs everywhere. Head. Elbows. Knees. Even her spirit needed one.
But did that stop her? Oh no.
The next day, she was back on her feet. Limping, yes. Covered in bandages, also yes. But determined. She said, "A little fall won't stop Nana."
A little fall? That wasn't a fall, Nana. That was a cataclysm.
And that's not even the end of it.
One time, she tried ironing clothes. Seems simple enough, right? She plugged in the iron. It sparked. Exploded. Literally burst into flames. Set the shirt on fire. She panicked and tried to throw water on it—except the "water" was actually cooking oil because someone (me) had swapped the bottles during a fun little crawl through the pantry. The flames tripled. She screamed. The smoke alarm wailed. The curtains caught on fire. And the poor fire extinguisher she grabbed? Was jammed. Of course it was. Because fate.
Another time, she was sweeping the backyard. Calm. Peaceful. Then a bird pooped on her head. She looked up in horror and that's when a whole flock of birds unleashed a barrage like it was D-Day and her hair was Normandy.
Then there was the day the washing machine ate her dress. Like literally sucked it in. She was screaming for help while the machine spun her skirt tighter and tighter until—snap—and suddenly she was left standing in her polka dot bloomers.
And don't even get me started on the time she tried to water the plants but the hose somehow coiled around her leg and she tripped straight into the koi pond.
But despite everything. All the chaos. All the bruises, burns, bites (yes there was a squirrel incident), and bird bombs—Nana stayed.
For one whole month.
And in my book, that makes her a hero.
A survivor.
A legend.
The strongest maid the Kingdom of Misfortune has ever known.
---
And so, after a month of Nana's glorious reign over the chaos that was our home, she finally left. No, it wasn't a dramatic exit like in some over-the-top soap operas where the storm clouds parted and a lone tear fell down her cheek as she walked away. No. It wasn't that glamorous. It was tragic, in its own way.
See, Nana's husband—oh, he was a character too—had a terrible accident. And when I say terrible, I mean it wasn't your average "slipped on a banana peel" type of accident. No. This was a catastrophe. The man had the worst luck imaginable. Picture this:
First, he was chased by a dog—not a cute puppy, mind you, but a rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth beast that probably had some deep vendetta against him.
Then, BAM, he got hit by a truck. But that's not even the worst part.
While lying on the road, trying to process his life choices, his money got stolen. Not stolen like a pickpocketing magician. No. The thief straight-up stole his wallet while he was unconscious on the pavement. The man was essentially down on his luck times a thousand.
And if that wasn't enough, the universe, clearly having nothing better to do, decided to strike him with lightning. In the middle of this insane sequence of bad events. Like, honestly, how did the universe even pull that off? Was it like, "Eh, let's wrap this up with a bolt of lightning just to make sure this man knows what bad luck really feels like"?
Now, the truth? That wasn't the exact reason Nana quit. Fourth wall break time—sorry, this is my overly imaginative, childish mind running wild again. It wasn't a lightning bolt, or a truck, or a dog. But it was an accident. That much is true. Nana had to leave because of an injury her husband sustained, and it wasn't pretty. It ended her career as our maid.
But, my God, even her family wasn't safe from my curse.
I'll admit, that day was the saddest day of my young life. Watching her leave, I swear I could feel the earth tremble beneath me with every step she took—okay, not really, that was just my overactive imagination, but honestly, it felt like an earthquake. Nana had been a fixture in my life for so long that her absence felt like someone had ripped a hole in my world.
As she walked out the door for the last time, I couldn't help but feel a profound sadness, despite my family's, you know, cursed reputation. It felt like the first real loss I had experienced. You don't know what it's like to get attached to someone who, despite all the accidents, stayed by your side, never giving up—even when the universe was basically playing Jenga with her life.
Years passed after Nana's departure. I'm a bit older now, but I still longed for her. Who wouldn't? She had been the only stable thing in my chaotic existence, and now, it felt like something precious was missing. It was like a part of me was broken. And so, in my quest for some form of comfort, I turned to my sister.
You see, I tried. I really did.
I really, really tried.
I wanted to spend time with her. I wanted to play with her. I wanted to share my childhood with her, like some perfect, happy sibling duo in a well-filmed commercial. But, nope. She acted like I was some ghost haunting her, like I had crawled out of her nightmare and just couldn't leave. Yeah, that was fun. You know the whole "I'm not mad, just disappointed" thing? Well, I was sure she was mad, and disappointed.
But I wasn't one to give up. No. I was the King of Misfortune, and my fate was to never give up. I watched her as she tried to sneak out of the house to play with her friends. Oh, I had to stop her, of course. A lonely child, left to his own devices, has to try whatever he can to get some attention, right?
And so, I did what any reasonable child would do. I tried to chase after her. Running. Full speed. With the agility of a highly uncoordinated potato.
Then, of course, I tripped.
Fourth wall break here: Oh, look. Classic fanservice trip moment. Isn't it just delightful when the main character's most consistent personality trait is being a walking disaster? You gotta love it. Or maybe you don't. Anyway, moving on...
As I tripped, I had the brilliant idea to reach out and grab my sister's arm—the one part of her that was closest to me—so that I wouldn't faceplant directly into the concrete floor. I tried to save myself. In hindsight, it was a terrible idea. Terrible. I mean, I could've grabbed her arm or shoulder or... literally anywhere else.
But no.
I grabbed her.
Right.
In the wrong place.
I... I grabbed her shorts. You know, the thing she had on her body as an essential garment. Not that I was looking for it, but my hand just went there.
In slow motion, I watched as her face turned the deepest shade of red I had ever seen in my entire life. Seriously, if someone had handed her a tomato, she probably would've burst into flames.
My heart stopped. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to die on the spot. The embarrassment was real. I had singlehandedly ruined her entire existence.
But before she could do anything—I mean, before she could explode with fury—her friends... her friends saw it all.
And they laughed.
They laughed like it was the funniest thing to happen since the dawn of time. You know how people laugh in those scenes where it's just an awkward "haha-yeah-we're-not-really-laughing-we're-just-embarrassed-laughing"? No. This was full-on cackling. Like a scene straight out of a schoolyard comedy where the bully sees an opportunity to strike.
Her friends laughed so hard, I swear I could hear their giggles echoing through the house. And that was it. That was the moment I became the villain in her story.
She, mortified, yanked her shorts back up, her face now as red as a stop sign, and ran into the house, crying as she shouted, "I REALLY REALLY HATE YOU!!"
I stood there. I didn't know what to do. My curse had hit its peak—the pinnacle of family dysfunction. My sister, forever scarred, would likely never speak to me again. And it was all my fault.
But, in a way... I couldn't help but laugh. Yeah, okay, maybe I was the one who tripped, and maybe it was my stupid decision to grab the wrong spot, but I couldn't resist. The absurdity of it all—the bad luck, the embarrassment, the chaos of it—was just too much.
And that... that's the downside of being the King of Misfortune. You might be unlucky, but in the end, you can't help but laugh at the chaos. Even if it's your own fault.
---
So, I guess that's how I became the ultimate source of embarrassment for my sister. And if you're wondering—no, we never really got over it. She's probably still mad at me. But hey, that's the life of the King of Misfortune. What can you do?