MADONNA DESCHAMPS AL-AMIN grew up always giving love but never receiving. Born into a Catholic family from a French mother and immigrant Egyptian father she knew that things were always going to be difficult. Because of the way her mother taught her...
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Autumn was such a picturesque time of year. I remember it. The sky was a deep orange, and the leaves already had a slight tint to them. I was looking outside of my window every minute, looking it while painting the view. I was trying to block out the sound of my mother's voice as she called me down for dinner. Then the door slung open.
"Madonna, je t'ai appelée ! Viens dîner, ma fille !" (Translated off DeepL.) She said to me. I could tell she was angry. "Oui, maman." I replied. When I came downstairs, my father was already eating dinner. Without us. He looked at me sourly, and my mother had a stern face. "Père, tu ne nous as pas attendus ?" I questioned. He put his fork down and leaned back in his chair. My mother gripped my arm tightly and held her breath. "Vous..." He began. "Nous avons pris trop de temps. Asseyez-vous tous les deux." My mother sighed. "Ingrid, commence la prière." He told my mother as we sat down. I took my mother's hand in my left and my father's in my right as we prayed over the food. As I looked up at the cross above the kitchen door, I hesitated slightly before joining them.
How could such symbols of protection be displayed in such a violent house? Was it our last hope? I grew up my entire life knowing I was a mistake baby. My father was supposed to be my father's brother. She cheated. And my mother self proclaimed it was "the last sin she ever committed." She still smoked. Drank when the time was right. Swore at my father. Swore at me. He would do the same things. But I could tell they were both stressed. And it was my fault.
Mid-dinner, they began arguing. I continued to block out the noise like I always did when they argued. I daydreamed of golden streams of light peeking in through the trees as I laid in the grass. My feet were bare, and my dress was dirty from rolling in the fresh earth. I could hear the water from the river running down the current, ducks and fish swimming in synchronisation. The air was crisp and felt like new. Then the air began to choke me and the noise of the river got louder like a tsunami. The sun began to burn me. My father slammed his fist down on the table and stood up while yelling at my mother. She yelled back. I dropped my fork and flinched. My father looked at me pitily before telling me to go upstairs.
I laid in my bed, annoyed and distraught. We've never had a normal night. At least not that I can remember. Could I pray again? Would that fix it after 16 years? I did. Just like every night.
The next morning, I felt weight on my bed. It was my father. He woke me up, pressing a kiss to the side of my forehead and smiling as if nothing happened last night. He looked over at my easel. "Que peignez-vous en ce moment?" He asked me. "La vue." I replied. He crossed his arms while laying chest first on my bed. "Quel genre de point de vue ?" I looked out of my bedroom window, the fog blurring the outside world. "Un beau genre." He laughed. "Votre miroir?" I smiled and teasingly hit him on the shoulder. He stares into space for a moment before looking back at me. "...تزلف" This was how I knew mother was near. Whenever she was in the room or near us, we'd stop speaking French and speak Arabic instead, so she didn't know what we were saying. She didn't like it when we spoke the language, nor did she care to learn it. "هل تعلم أننا سنحل كل ما يحدث قريبًا؟" I rolled my eyes. " ...أبي" He sighed before sitting me up in his arms and placing his chin on my head. "حبيبي، أنا جادة. ...أنا وأمك فقط لا تقلق بشأن ذلك. أنا أحبك، حسناً؟"
