A letter to the woman beside my cradle

Dear Mother,

Ever since the day I was able to gargle words to you, you’ve tried to understand me and the many things I wanted to say. Even though there'd be nights where we’d argue, and you’d sit in your room in silence. I still knew that after the storm cleared, you’d be in my room with me wrapped in your arms as we showered each other in affection and apologies. You’ve always been able to read me like a book, and pierce through my heart like a needle. But even I know not every needle can penetrate every surface. I feel like every child has a secret or two that they put under wraps for years to come. Like how they broke a lamp and blamed it on the cat, or how they threw away their report card and pretended it disappeared when asked about its whereabouts. But my secret isn’t quite as simple or as faint as that. The skeletons I have in my closet aren’t as normal as any other child’s. My closet goes deep and as you enter the darkness, it almost feels like the air gets thicker, and its hard to breathe. But I digress. When I was 8, you’d often be busy at work trying to support us as best you could. You were juggling that, being a nursing student, and trying to feed me and get me a sitter for the summer. Because your funds were understandably tight, you couldn’t afford $200 a week for a professional sitter. So instead, you looked to my absent father for a bit of assistance. I remember standing in the grocery store line, holding your hand as you choked back the tears from your eyes. I already knew that my father had said no to watching me, and I could tell it broke your heart into a million pieces. You never did like to let me see you cry, because you knew that it would make me worry about you. So, you just hung up the phone, wiped your eyes, and smiled at me like nothing had happened. I knew you wanted to drop to your knees and break down in the middle of that store, but you didn’t want to be seen as “weak.” So after about a week of trying to find a sitter, you got a call from my grandma. I was sitting on the floor in the room pretending to play with my toys, but I was secretly paying attention to your conversation. I couldn’t hear everything, but I did manage to hear the words “uncle,” and “sitter” and I was immediately on edge. My uncle had a very known reputation for being lazy, rude, and strict. So often when I was watched by him, it was as if I was just watching myself. Soon my fears were confirmed when you ran into my room ecstatic with “good news.” You told me I’d be spending my summer days at my grandma’s until you and she were off from work. I just nodded and gave a fake smile to make you happy, because I knew you were glad you thought I’d be in good care. Fast forward to the middle of June, and my days were filled with solitude in my grandmother’s room. Everyday I’d watch the same shows on repeat and would stuff my face with pop tarts, fruit snacks and chips. Yes, I hated being here, but I knew it would just stress you out further if I bothered you about it. So, I kept my mouth shut and just prayed the hours would pass so that I could finally see you again. But one day made me sure I never wanted to spend another moment with my uncle again. It was July 7th and he had just come back in the house from a quick smoke. I remember feeling especially irritated by him because I was getting impatient with him and his terrible care. So as soon as I heard the door slam open, I ran to confront him about it. Now remember, I was 8, I didn’t really put much thought into what I was saying but I knew that it was going to be something that would make him finally listen to me. “Hey!” I shouted to him from the stairs, he just rolled his eyes and said “what?” I took a deep breath and said, “You don’t take good care of me, you only sit down in your room, play video games, and cook for yourself. You never actually care for me.” Even though I knew the words were coming from my mouth with volume behind them, he just stood there and looked at me as if I was just shouting nonsense to him. This irritated me even further, so I yelled, and I quote, “IF YOU DON’T STOP BEING SUCH A BASTARD, I’LL GO TELL MY MOM ON YOU!” And just that fast, he was gone. No, he didn’t walk away. H e was charging toward me up the steps. My life almost flashed before my eyes as I ran toward the storage room that was to the left of his. But I was too slow. He had gotten a hold of my shirt and tossed me into the futon in the storage room. I remember the smell of his rancid breath brushing across my face as he held me by my ruffled-up collar. “Watch who the f**k you’re talking to,” are the only words he growled to me in a hushed whisper before the let go of my collar and stomped off to his room. I sat there for what felt like an eternity as my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. But the funny part is, even after all of that, I still never exactly told you why I never wanted to go back to grandmas. I guess I just didn’t think I should, or maybe he’d hurt me again. All you know is that I came to you saying I was tired of staying at her house because it was boring. And after a bit of pressure, you finally let me stop going there during the week. Yeah, you were annoyed with me, but I knew if I told you what really happened you would’ve blamed yourself. And that would’ve hurt me more than his fist or the back of his hand. Luckily, I never did have to worry about interacting with him so closely again. And when I did, it was quick, awkward, and silent. Now that I’ve wrestled that skeleton out of my closet, I feel like I can finally breathe again. Don’t sit here and blame yourself either, I chose to make this my secret, and that will never be your fault.

Love your firstborn,

M.