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"𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮." 𝐈 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭.
"𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞?"
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When a stubborn, unmotivated twenty-year-old living a difficult life is in desperate need of another job to cover bills for her and...
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I was 7 years old when I found out that my mother was sick.
I was in my own imagination playing with my teddy bear, one that got given to me by mother which she had when she was my age. It wasn't in terrible shape, just not the best. It's ear looked like it's was chewed off and it was losing a mouth. A mute bear, named Milo.
I was minding my business until the living room door whipped open, revealing my limp mother leaning on its side panting heavily with beads of sweat running down her forehead.
Is she tired? I know my mum doesn't eat her regular three meals. She tells me it's because she eats so much at midnight when we both sneak into the kitchen for a midnight snack that she feels full by time it's dinner. She never has breakfast.
She moves her body so she can collapse onto the sofa chair, as she rubs her forehead with her fingers.
I tilt my head in curiosity, and make my way to her.
My mum never shows me her weakness. I know she puts on a brave face just for me. But I can see straight past her false facade. Sometimes I've caught her throwing up in the bathroom at random times in the day, and swallowing an immense amount of pills. When she catches a cold, it's never mild. It's always the kind where she's needed to be put on bed rest.
I've told her to go to the doctor a couple of times but she just refuses, saying there's nothing wrong.
I grab her arm and she looks at me, with a smile that evidently does not reach her eyes. "What's wrong, mamá?" I ask.
After a bit of struggle, she manages to snuggle me close into her small lap, "Nothing, mi amor. Why don't you tell me the adventures you took Milo on today?" She says, subtly changing the subject.
My 7-year-old oblivious self smiled excitedly and held Milo close as I told her a story.
I could feel the burning gaze of my father on the door frame, watching us.
My father terrifies me sometimes. He hurts me on my back and only stops when he feels satisfied he's done enough damage. No matter what good behaviour I do, it's never good enough for him.
He wasn't always like this. He used to be a kind loving father before his claimed 'gambling problem' which he believes was our fault as he lost everything. But he didn't. He had my mother by his side. He had me.
The worst thing, is that he knew my mother was sick, yet he did nothing to act upon it. How could he? He was too broke himself to get treatment after we visited Mexico for my grandparents.
