Motherless

52

I sat in the car, arms crossed over my chest, eyes glued to the porch across the street.

My mom was standing there, talking to Hector's parents. Her posture stiff, her hands gesturing as if she was trying to explain something, maybe even apologize. But the way Hector was sitting, shoulders slumped, face pale, staring at the ground like he'd already been sentenced... I knew. He was in trouble. And it was because of me.

I caught his glance. Just a flick, but enough. Sad eyes, guilt, regret all directed at me.

I whispered under my breath, almost to myself, "I'm sorry"

He didn't say anything. He just looked down again, letting the silence swallow him.

Then Mom came back to the car. I watched her slide into the driver's seat, the seatbelt clicking into place. She didn't speak at first, just exhaled, a deep, tired sound that made my stomach twist.

As we pulled into our driveway, she finally spoke.

"I'll order dinner," she said, voice tight but steady. "I can't think about cooking right now. We'll talk about today later. I need to calm down first. But you need to know something, Talia..." Her voice softened, almost cracking. "I love you. No matter what. That will never change."

I felt a small flicker of relief, but it was immediately swallowed by her next words.

"But I'm extremely upset right now," she continued, her eyes sharp. "And because of today, there will be consequences. For the next month, no phone or social media. No friends over. You will focus on school and chores, and I expect full honesty in everything you do. That's your punishment."

I opened my mouth.

"Mom—" I started.

"I know—just... not now"she interrupted gently, shaking her head.

Mom held up her hand, signaling for me to go inside first. I gave a small nod, understanding, and stepped out of the car.

I walked toward the house, shoulders tense, and felt the weight of everything settle on me.

It was my fault. I knew it.

But I also knew one thing. Mom still loved me. Well at least one did.

*****

The next day, Mom called me out back.

Her voice was softer than usual. Careful.

"Come sit with me for a minute."

The bonfire pit was already set up, embers glowing low. She handed me a stick and a marshmallow like it was normal. Like this was just another quiet evening and not the aftermath of everything.

I sat across from her, knees pulled in, staring into the fire.

She leaned back, giving me space. Waiting.

"So," she said gently, eyes on the flames. "How did it go... with your mom?"

My chest tightened.

I didn't answer.

I stared at the marshmallow, turning it slowly over the heat until it started to blister.

Why is she asking now?

She didn't want me to go. She was furious. Hurt. Scared.

So why now?

My thoughts raced.
Is this a trap?
Am I about to get in more trouble?
Is she testing me?

I stayed quiet too long.

Mom glanced at me, then back to the fire. "I can see you thinking," she said calmly. "I'm not trying to corner you. I just... want to know what happened."

I swallowed.

My throat felt raw just thinking about it.

I nodded once.

"Okay," I whispered.

I told her about the cold room. The cuffs. The way that woman looked at me like I was an inconvenience instead of a daughter. I told her the things she said how she never wanted me, how I was to blame for my father leaving, how she resented me for existing.

Mom didn't interrupt. Not once.

Then I reached the part where everything broke open again.

"When I asked her if she knew," I said, my voice faltering. "About... about him."

My fingers tightened around the stick.

"She didn't answer at first."

My chest started to ache.

"And then she admitted it."

The fire crackled.

"Admitted what, baby?" Mom asked gently.

My breath hitched.

"She knew about him."

My chest caved in.

"She knew he was... hurting me."

The words shattered something in me.

Suddenly I wasn't in the backyard anymore.

I was small again.
Frozen.
The weight of him on me.
The ceiling I stared at almost every night.
The sound of the door opening.
My heart pounding so loud I thought it would wake the house.

I started sobbing hard. Ugly. Uncontrollable.

"I was scared," I cried. "I was so scared to tell her. I thought she wouldn't believe me. I tried so many times—so many times—to open my mouth, and I never did because I knew she'd choose him over me."

My hands clenched into fists.

"And she did," I screamed. "She already knew! She knew the whole time! Him coming into my room at night—she knew. Making excuses for us to be alone—she knew. Sending me to him—she knew! She knew!"

My voice broke apart, raw and unhinged.

"What kind of mother lets that happen?" I yelled through tears. "What kind of person lets someone do that to a child? To anyone —knowingly?"

I sucked in air like I was drowning.

"I'll never get that choice back," I sobbed. "Never. I didn't get to decide anything. I didn't get to choose who I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. She stole that from me. She did."

My chest burned.

"I hate her," I cried. "I hate her so much. I hate her for knowing. I hate her for choosing him. I hate her for letting it happen."

I broke completely.

The stick slipped from my hand. The marshmallow fell into the dirt. I didn't care.

Then arms wrapped around me.

Warm. Solid.

Mom moved behind me and pulled me back against her chest, holding me tight. She rocked us gently. She pressed soft kisses into my hair, my temple, my cheek—over and over.

"I've got you," she whispered. "I've got you."

I cried into her arms, shaking, breaking, letting everything pour out.

She didn't rush me.
Didn't tell me to calm down.
Didn't tell me to breathe.

She just held me.

Rocking.
Kissing.
Waiting.