My Mother

“My mother,” she said. “She never let me do anything. I couldn’t even go outside without her permission.” Her eyes were staring down at her interlaced fingers. He could notice them slightly shaking at the mentioning of her mother. It wasn’t a topic she enjoyed. He knew that much.

“You couldn’t have just asked her?” He asked. She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. She pressed her hands to her forehead and rested her face on them, slightly leaning over.

“No,” she said. “No, I couldn’t.” She brought her face up, her eyes meeting his. He wanted to looked away but didn’t. Eye contact, he was taught, was one of the most important aspects of conversations. “You want to know why?”

He hesitated. Is that something he should really ask? His mind whispered yes. “Why?” He finally said, after a long moment of thought.

“Every time I would ask, she gave me a slap to the face. Right on the cheek — until the skin turned flush and stung.” Her eyes went back down, now to her feet. Even though, her toes were covered by the worn shoes, he could see them wiggle under the fabric. She sighed, “Eventually, I learned not to ask.”

He stayed silent. How could anyone respond to that? He wanted to ask more, but…she looked so pained by talking about her mother. He decided to go the safe route — apologizing. Although, he knew it wasn’t his fault. People were so weird. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

She shook her head quietly. “Don’t be. It taught me something.”

“And what was that?” He looked to her face, her lips were curled at the corners. She made a small laughing sound.

“I learned how to not be afraid,” She smiled. She tore her fingers apart, and started at them for a moment before making her way to his shirt. He glanced down at it. There was nothing wrong with it, that he could notice. It was a sky blue shirt with white buttons. She she seemed so intent to looking at it. “Your shirt,” she stared. Her fingers touched the edge of his collar, he drew back. “It has a hole.”

“What do you–” He glanced down at the collar. He was sure there was no such hole. But — after studying it deeply, he saw a tiny tear on it. Probably from a moth, he suspected. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’, is right.” She replied. “Mother always got mad when she saw holes in my clothes.” He brought his focus back to her dark eyes. They were shadowed by her long lashes. The morning sun brightened up her angular features, making her look less solemn. “She would slice my palm for every hole I had, if she found them. I would throw them away when she wasn’t looking.” She paused, her eyes focusing on nothing particular. She was deep in this memory, as if watching it from afar. “I only got cut a few times.”

“‘Only’…” he repeated. “You weren’t scared of her? You know…by the way she treated you. I mean–”

“No,” she stated. Her voice was firm. She watched him with uneasy eyes.

“But–” He started.

“No,” she said again. “I didn’t. She was my mother, I could’ve never feared her.”