Mama’s face is all scrunched up again, like it always is when she’s trying not to cry in front of me. I don’t like it when Mama cries and she knows it. That’s why when I see her like this, I always ask, “What’s the matter, Mama?”
Although, I’m not entirely sure why I still bother asking anymore. I know that she’ll never tell me the real reason, and tonight, it isn’t any different.
Instead of telling me the truth, Mama turns shyly away from me, nervously running one shaky hand through her strawberry-blonde hair, while the other grips a washcloth, incessantly scrubbing the kitchen countertops. Her glittering, green eyes are unwavering, set adamantly on the spotless countertops she’s already cleaned.
“It’s okay to tell me, Mama. I want to help.”
Mama continues absentmindedly scrubbing every surface in the kitchen over and over again. When she’s finished she doesn’t stop. She needs them cleaner—always cleaner.
I voluntarily tuck the chairs under the dinner table, just like Mama taught me. I look up, hoping to see a proud smile, but instead, she brushes it off as if it’s nothing special. It isn’t, really. I half expected her to shoo me away, like she always does when I try to help her with her chores. I almost think that maybe she didn’t notice, but I know Mama better than that; Mama notices everything.
She notices if I help around the house, especially if it involves any of the many chores I’m assigned. She has them printed on the “Daily Routine" checklist posted on the kitchen wall. She would definitely notice if I forget to check off a chore after I completed it.
But I don’t have to worry about that—I always finish my chores, all of them, always on time, too. I never forget to check it off the list either—not anymore. I'd only ever forgotten once. But that was before. I've had two birthdays since then, all without a single mistake.
I don't mind doing the work, and I don't mind that it makes Mama proud. Even though she doesn't outwardly express her gratitude, I can still tell that she’s grateful—which is good enough for me. What I do mind, however, is the checklist itself. It makes me feel like Mama doesn’t trust me to do what I’m supposed to do—It’s as if she’s convinced that I lack the responsibility required to effectively manage my own duties.
I’ve already asked Mama if she’d give me a chance to prove to her that I no longer need to be babied with the daily schedules, but she refuses to consider it. I’ve learned to get used to it because I know better than to ask Mama a question that’s already been answered.
I watch Mama spritz more white vinegar on the same spot for the third or fourth time tonight. Each time she adds more vigor than the last. Dancing alone, around and around she goes. She can’t pretend not to notice the weight of my gaze on her; how heavily concerned I am.
Mama releases a short, sudden sigh under her breath, bordering on irritation. She knows I’ll never give up. That’s something else she taught me.
A desperate laugh escapes her lips. She forces a weak smile saying, “Oh, sweetheart, it’s just the sun getting in my eyes again.”
Folding my arms in protest, I let out a long, low sigh—unmistakable evidence of my disbelief. I do this because I know Mama too well; her sidestepping ways are something I’ve come to expect. I see through her attempts to distract me, to divert my attention from the ugly truth she thinks she hides so well. She often puts on this facade in an effort to stop me from asking back-to-back questions, demanding more answers. To her, outwardly admitting that she had been crying was already saying too much. Mama’s pride couldn’t be shaken—she made sure of that.
But one thing she couldn’t control was Daddy. His rage was like a hurricane. Unpredictable and devastating. Tearing through the house, roaring so loud that nothing else could drown out the sound.
I dreaded the nights when I felt responsible for Mama and Daddy’s conflicts. Their anger often felt like it was about me, with my name or my brother’s sometimes emerging in their bitter exchanges. I could feel their tempestuous voices vibrating through the walls and floors upstairs.
Sometimes, deep into the night, Mama would become thunder. She’d hurl objects at Daddy that would boom with a violent crack—sharp and bright, like lightning—leaving traces behind, even long after they’d gone silent.
At Sunrise the next day, Mama would be squinting, her face scrunched up. If I asked her why her eyes were wet, she’d suddenly become fidgety, mumbling something about her eyes gone swimming. I’d nod my head, but I knew what this really meant:
BEWARE OF BROKEN GLASS.
Even now, I still can’t picture Mama behaving so viciously. When I see her, she’s gracious and delicate in her ways. She’s a gentle breeze. But despite her familiar nature, somehow, Daddy knew just how to stir the storm inside her. And when he did, she left a whirlwind in her wake.
Just as these sounds had started to become familiar, they suddenly went silent one day. I wasn’t sure if that silence marked the end of the hurricane, or if it meant we were in the eye of the storm, waiting for the next wave to strike. Either way, the silence somehow felt louder than all their chaos— more frightening. It was an odd, estranged comfort; like an old friend who had long since faded away. It wasn’t the kind of familiarity that starts out tough but becomes comforting over time, like the first day of school you dread but eventually miss once it’s gone—no, this was more like a love so deep you learn to accept its flaws, until you no longer notice the toxicity that was once so clear.
In all of this, though, there’s one thing I’m not sure about: whether Mama is hurt by Daddy’s words or if she’s upset because she can’t control him anymore. In any case, I still just want Mama to be happy. And I want Daddy to start coming home for dinner with us again.
Mama’s trying her best to avoid having to tell her youngest son the ugly truth—that his father had been the source of her sadness, the reason for her tears.
I feel my eyes beginning to swell like a tide of ocean blue, but I refuse to back down. Mama needs me right now. I know she does, even if she doesn’t realize that truth herself. I need Mama to see me—to really see me. To notice that I’m not a little baby boy anymore— that, at seven years old, I am capable of handling the truth.
I stand firmly in place, holding my gaze on Mama. It isn’t long before a lump forms in my throat, tight and raw, hindering my ability to speak—not that I’d know what to say anyway. Even if I did, I know my words would only tangle together, snagging stuck in my vocal box.
I stutter a breath in spurts deep into my lungs, my lip quivering uncontrollably. A brief moment of silence falls between us.
Despite how Mama typically demands all attention to be given to her, I can tell she’s had enough of me when she suddenly breaks away from her perpetual cleaning routine, ambling over to me.
“Goodness gracious me, darling,” She contends through a subtle laugh, pressing the words through a toothed grin, “my eyes are just having a little swim in the sunlight, that’s all.”
That’s how Mama would tell it.
Then she’d scrunch up her face and squint, making it look like the bright sun was the real culprit. She’d always hug me tight, insisting, “Don’t you worry your pretty head about me; your Mama is gonna be just fine, you understand me?”
I’d laugh with her, tight in her embrace. “Yes ma’am,” I’d say. “I understand.” And just like that, my worry would slowly fade away, little by little, until it all washed away along with the tides in my eyes.
But that was then.
Today I didn’t fall for it. Today I decide to be strong; to prove to Mama that she doesn’t have to hide the truth from me anymore.
I don’t want to call her a liar, but I can’t keep pretending like everything is perfect—the way it used to be. I gather all the strength I can find, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat.
I have to do something— say something—anything. I need for Mama to know that I don’t believe her silly stories about her eyes gone’ swimmin’, or that the supposed brightness of sunlight is making her squint.
I brace myself, in the same way I imagine Mama must do when she has to keep it all together, despite how sorrow makes everything quake inside.
“Don’t choke on your words; don’t stumble on them,” I tell myself. I take a long, deep breath, exhaling a whisper, “And please, don’t sound like a big baby.”
When I feel ready, I reach out and grab Mama’s red, worn hand, stilling it mid-scrub. She freezes, her focus shifts to my hand on hers. She slowly looks up, searching my eyes, opening her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.
“Mama, please stop crying.”
As soon as the words are out, she loses it. Mama crumples to the floor, sobbing with her face buried in her trembling hands.
“I’m sorry Mama,” I bawled, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I just—"
She cuts me off, gripping my shoulders, firm, desperate.
“My sweet baby boy,” she breathes, “you did nothing wrong.” Her voice cracks as she chokes back tears. It’s almost like she’s drowning, gasping for air. I instinctively try pulling her up, like she needs help swimming to the surface for air. Mama doesn’t budge, but she isn’t pushing me away either. She isn’t spinning out some ridiculous story. She isn’t trying to put a pretty cover on her words this time. I listen with both ears as she struggles to form her words, but they spill out in a mess.
Instead of trying to say more, Mama gently brushes her fingers through my hair, nodding her head as if in understanding. She remains silent as she regains her composure.
When Mama looks up again, her face is relaxed and smoothed over. She rises with a newfound strength in her bones; her hands have stilled. She stands taller. Her eyes, however, still hold a subtle hint of redness—a beautiful compliment to the green in them. It looks more like Christmas than sadness.
Mama reaches out her hand, gesturing for me to walk with her. I hesitate, struggling to read Mama’s expression. But then she smiles. I smile back, grabbing a hold of her hand. I am immediately overwhelmed with excitement, barely able to stand still. I wait for Mama to take the first step, to lead the way, wherever we’re going, but she doesn’t move. I search her face again for clues. I feel my smile getting weaker, my confusion growing more profound. Then Mama glances down toward me, her body still facing onward, but she’s nodding her head—a signal for me to lead the way.
I proudly stretch out my leg into the first step, holding my chin higher, puffing up my chest full of air. Then the question comes, “Where are we going, Mama?”
I feel my face turn hot as Mama glances at her watch. Instinctively, I remember—it’s time to review today’s Daily Routine checklist. Without a word, I lead her to the spot in the kitchen where the list hangs. I glance up at her, searching for her approval, but her gaze lingers on the list.
Then, to my surprise, she reaches out and pulls it clean off the wall. My stomach drops.
Mama holds the paper in one hand, high above my head. I watch, frozen, as her fingers begin to crumple it. The soft crackle of paper fills the room. My heart pounds, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for whatever may come next.
I slowly open my eyes to see her staring at me, a soft smile shaping her lips. She crouches down, holding the balled-up paper, her hand outstretched.
“Go on,” she says gently. “You finish it.”
I blink in surprise, unsure if I’ve heard her right. Mama tilts her head, encouraging me, reassuring me that I’ve heard her correctly.
I reach out with one shaky hand and take the crumpled checklist from her. It feels small and light in my hands, nothing like the weight it used to carry.
For a moment, I just stand there, holding it. Then Mama nods toward the trash bin. “Let’s do it together,” she insisted.
We walk together, side by side. I glance up at her one last time. She nods again, giving me the courage to proceed. I take a deep breath, lift the lid, and together, we drop the crumpled paper inside.
As it lands, I feel something lift inside me. Mama places a hand on my shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “No more lists,” she says with a certainty I’ve only ever dreamed about hearing.
I look up at her, my chest swelling with pride. And for the first time, I feel not just trusted—but I really, truly feel seen.
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