Windows

Breakdown

My heart dropped. No, that's not the right word. It plummeted. I could only gape in horror as my mother angrily rearranged her clothes in a suitcase and slammed past me into the kitchen to retrieve our cutlery, kettle, and toaster. It took me a few seconds to regain my voice and shout, "No, wait!"

"What?" She appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, her suitcase swinging into the wall. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes wild, almost feral. She blew a strand of hair out of her face in frustration. "What are you waiting for? Let's get out of this dump!"

"I... I don't want to leave," I choked out.

She peered at me suspiciously. "Go pack. Now."

"No! This can't end like this again! Get a hold of yourself!" I screamed. I'm aware that my mother's insanity may be genetic. I got quite het up, dangerously mad. 

"What did you say to me?" The statement was said in an angry tone but Mum was busily folding plates into newspaper, in the absence of bubblewrap, her back to me. In her haste she dropped one on the linoleum floor and it shattered. "Oh, shit. Will you clean that up? Don't just stand there gaping, hurry up. What's going on with you?" she said accusingly.

"I know you're upset, Mum, but you need to stop running away from your problems! You're dragging me with you! Mum, stop! Talk to me!"

And she's crying. She won't stop cramming ceramic into newspaper as she sobs. This is how it usually goes. Anger, then the tears. Lots and lots of tears. More anger. More tears. The silence. And just when it gets slightly back to normal, a new boyfriend comes and ruins at all.

"Mum."

No reply. She's bent over the kitchen bench in hysterics. 

"Mum?" I repeat questioningly. I know I should probably leave her to it, but this is one of the three rooms in the house and all that occupies the others is a bathroom and a very bare living room. And I won't be able to block out her crying wherever I am within a five-mile distance. 

"Please," I said softly. I patted her back comfortingly. I hate myself for not telling her before. It was the hostility in me that did it. I wanted to see her break down again, and pay for the supposed neglect she inflicted on me. Deep down, though, I know she cares. But she was too wrapped up in her sorrow to care quite enough.

I know she can hear me as her sobs are quietening. I know she won't reply, but as long as she's listening, I began to talk.

"You don't like it here. I don't much prefer it, either. But I've found something here that I desperately need. This is quite possibly the best place for me. I know you're sad, but this could be a good place for you, too. You just need to try. You need to stop relying on these little affairs. You're better than them. You're better than Jerry. He was stupid to do what he did to you. But I love you, and I always will. Do you hear me? I love you. And I'm relying on you to give me a stable family life. We can't keep moving around like this."

"We can't?" She lifted her head and gazed at me sadly, like a child learning that Santa is make-believe. Her eyes were red, cheeks puffy and swollen. She rested her head on her arm and waited for my reply. It was like our roles had been reversed, me being the mother comforting the daughter after a break-up. 

"No. Because it won't make a difference. This is like a routine. Do you know how many times you've done this? Had a breakdown because of a former ex and moved away to forget?"

She stares at me blankly. It appears she had not noticed.

"Six. This is the sixth time. Stop, please. I've had enough," I declared.