Daffodil Sprouts🌼

Ch. 5 ' What the hell?

I pull the sweater over my body and rest my head on the wardrobe.
What a way to announce my arrival?
What. A. Way.

If this is happening on the first day, what do I know is going to happen next?

'Be careful, Yesmi. And don't be stupid. You're usually very stupid.' Grandma's last piece of advice, A.K.A insult resounds in my head. I should've paid more attention to it.

I make a phone call to Mom and ask her to direct me to her room; for fear of getting lost. She teases me but does anyway.

I realise I would've gotten lost if I tried looking myself. It's down the hallway, to the left, then to the right. I repeat, why is this house so big?

Her room is the first I see when I turn right, and above the door is an inscription saying 'Stephanie'— Mom's name. After a knock, the door opens. Mom walks to the bed immediately, and I trail behind her.

"Mommy?"

She turns, a questioning look occupying her face.

"Um . . . sorry for what happened back there," the words roll out of my mouth one by one.

Mom smiles and lies on the bed.

I tap her feet. "I said sorry."

"No, you don't need to be. Okay?"

"But I p—" I start to disagree.

"I should've let you eat when you insisted."

"I should've left when you insisted."

She extends her arms. "Come. Join me."

I climb onto the bed and wrap my arms around her. "Thanks for not getting mad."

"You're welcome." She rubs my hair. "I've missed cuddling with you."

Her voice is a whisper, and her eyes are barely open.

"Me too, but Grandma was a great replacement."

She laughs. It's loud, warm, and refreshing. I hug her tighter. Everything feels right, and I'm happy, until my stomach starts growling. When I can't stand the hunger anymore, I stand up.

Even if that's what I should do, my conscience won't let me go downstairs and ask for food, so I choose not to. I go to the dressing table and pull a drawer. Pushing it back in, I pull another, then another.

"Yes," I cheer. This drawer has exactly what can help. Credit cards. I shuffle them before finally picking one. "Looks cute."

I close the drawer and head out of the room, but stop at the entrance. I go back to the table, return the card, and take it back.

"Thanks for the card," I say, stopping at the entrance. I look at Mom's sleeping figure and add, "You definitely let me have it."

Walking out, I close the door.

* * * * *

"She gave me permission," I say to Samuel.

He's the driver who drove us from the airport, and the first person I saw when I walked out the main door. I was glad to see someone who could take me to a restaurant, but Samuel isn't willing to take me anywhere, not without being sure I have Mom's consent.

"She did?"

"Yes!" In my eagerness, I'm shouting, hoping it'll help my case. I gesture my hands down and take a step forward. "So I walked into the room," —he nods— "and . . . and she . . . she gave me! I mean, she did give me. Permission, or whatever you call it."