Deserving | ✔

Chapter 38

~~Phillip at five years old~~

My mother is the best ever. It might seem like a regular statement ever kid says about their mother. But, it's not like that. She is really the best ever girl; best ever human, even.

She never gets angry; she never forgets anything; she pats my hair whenever I do something good; she kisses Dad on the cheek whenever he does something good; she always smiles very widely when she sees me or Dad. I could go on, but the point is that she is the best ever girl and I love her.

"Phillip, sweetie?" I hear her call me from the kitchen. I run from the living room to the kitchen, to see her blond hair in a messy bun that is falling out. There is a bowl and spoon in her hands as she is whipping them. Ooh, probably she's making cake for me.

She looks at me and flashes a smile before sitting in the kitchen chair. "Phillip, my hair is falling out. Could you please braid it for me?"

I grin widely. One of the most favorite things I love to do for my mother is braiding her hair. She used to ask Dad to braid it for her while cooking or doing some other housework. And I always used to observe it. Then one day, Dad saw me looking so keenly at them and he offered to let me braid it. Mom's exact words were 'You braided it so perfectly, pumpkin!' From then on, I'm the one she calls for braiding her hair.

I quickly climb up another chair and pull her messy bun out. Her frizzy blond hair straightens out as I run my little fingers through it. I take three equal sections of the hair and start braiding, getting lost in the task. Soon enough, I'm at the bottom and I tie it with the band she had for the bun.

"Done!" I cheer and she stands up and turns towards me.

"Good boy!" she says and plants her lips in my hair. I wrap my tiny arms around her as the love for her flooded me.

Just then, the doorbell rang. "That must be your Dad. Could you go open the door for him?" Mom asks.

I meekly nod and rush towards the door. Mom doesn't know yet, but I have grown a little taller. There was a time when I used to stand on the tip of my toes to reach for the lock of the door. But now, I can reach for it while standing casually. It's a big achievement for me.

I open the door (while casually standing), but I don't see Dad there.

"You're not Dad," I blurt out.

The woman outside the door laughs. She looks so much more taller than me. Her grey coat and grey work skirt make her look like my father's coworker Jenny. But this woman has a short blond hair that is tied up perfectly unlike Jenny's brunette hair. I know one more thing common between the two women: bright red lipstick. I don't know what it is with girls and lipstick. Mom never wears them unless we go out to a BIG restaurant, and I've seen her usually wipe off some of it too. She never likes to wear them because she feels like her natural lip color is good enough. I agree with her. Why do you want to shade your lips a color that can naturally ever be possible? For example, this woman's lips would only be that bright red if she were to pour hot tomato sauce over it or if she were to receive a punch in her mouth.

I chuckle at that thought. "Who are you?" I ask, finally feeling to need to know who this stranger standing in front of my house is.

"Who are you, gentleman?" she asks me back.

'I asked first, Lipstick Woman,' I thought, but Mom had taught me that talking back to elders is impolite. So, I just answer her.

"I am Phillip March, five years and seven months old," I say proudly.