Chapter 4.4: (The nightmarish past)
A whole year passed.
I turned 8. I didn't expect presents. I didn't expect cake. But I thought maybe... maybe she'd say something.
"Mom... do you know what day it is?" I said quietly as she walked past me.
She stopped for a second.
Looked at me.
And walked away.
Not a word.
Not a glance back.
I stood there alone, holding a paper I had drawn. It was a drawing of the three of us, holding hands, smiling under a bright sun. My hands shook. I crumpled it. Tossed it in the trash.
"Why... why did she forget?" I whispered to myself.
"Why did my mom forget my birthday this time? Last year, she woke up early and made my birthday special by celebrating with me. Why is it different this year? It makes me wonder why she didn't remember this time."
I feel sad, but my tears won't fall. It's a confusing feeling that I can't quite understand. My life feels suffocating and sad. My mom is getting skinnier, and I'm starting to worry about her health. She might not be eating well because she's always busy with work.
One evening I looked at my mother and barely recognized her. Her cheeks were hollow, eyes dark like bruises. She drank cheap liquor and never ate. She came home late and collapsed on the couch without a word.
I decided and tried to hug her once.
She shoved me away.
"Stop pretending like everything's okay," she said bitterly. "You think a hug fixes things? We have no money. No future. Your father left us to rot."
"But I'm still here..." I whispered.
I was only 8. But I had to do something. The bills kept coming. Mom was thinner. Her hands shook. She stopped eating dinner and said she was "full" even when her stomach growled loud enough for me to hear.
So I found a job at a nearby restaurant. They let me wash dishes in the back.
I didn't mind.
Washing dishes, scrubbing plates and pots to keep the kitchen spick and span. At the end of my first week, I was handed my very first paycheck. It felt amazing to see the money in my hand as a reward for my hard work.
"This is for you," the owner said. "You worked hard." I stared at it like it was treasure "Thank you..." I whispered.
My fingers trembled as I walked home. I thought, Mom will be proud. She'll smile again. She'll say I helped.
"I couldn't wait to show my mom the money I earned."
Then I saw my mom waiting outside our building, she quickly came over to me. I thought she would be happy for me, "Mom!" I called, running toward her with the envelope.
But her eyes were blazing. Before I could even explain, her hand reached out and yanked my hair.
"Where were you?!"
"I—I was working! I earned money!" I said, holding up the envelope. "Look!"
She slapped it from my hand. The envelope hit the ground. Money spilled out.
Then she screamed.
"Does the money I earn mean nothing to you?! Is it not enough?! Do you think I'm that pathetic?! You think this dirty money will fix anything!? Do you think I want my child working like a stray dog for crumbs?!"
Her voice cracked with every word.
"I'm doing everything I can! Everything! And it's still not enough! I come home and all I see is this empty house, your face looking at me like I'm failing, and now this?! I didn't ask for this, okay?! I didn't ask to be left with nothing! I didn't ask to raise you alone!"
I stood there frozen. Her words were knives. My chest hurt.
"But I just wanted to help..." I whispered. "I wanted to help you, Mom..."
She stared at me, her shoulders shaking. Tears started to stream down her face.
Then, she collapsed to her knees.
"I'm sorry," she said between sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I just... I don't know what to do anymore... I'm so tired..."
I knelt beside her. Reached out. Touched her shoulder.
"I'm tired too, Mom." My voice trembled, almost breaking. It was unbearable, watching Mama collapse like that—her tears spilling, her body shaking, her strength gone. I whispered again, softer, "It hurts."
That night, I made my choice. I would stop working at the restaurant. Maybe then... maybe Mama wouldn't have to cry anymore.
But sleep never came. I lay flat on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the silence press down on me. My chest ached with something I couldn't name. I kept wondering if other children—children my age—ever felt this tired at only 8 years old. Or if this ache was mine alone to carry.
"I don't know why it's happening to me... and why do I still hope and wait for something... I... I... don't really know why."
Another year has passed, I'm already 9 now, and I'm at school, my teacher mentioned that Mother's Day was coming up. I decided to gather some flowers from the park to surprise my mom with.
On my way back home, I caught a glimpse of my mom with a person who looked like my dad. Excitedly, I hurried over, hoping he had returned. However, as I got nearer, I noticed he was holding hands with another lady and had a child in his arms.
My mom's face looked really surprised and sad, like she was going to cry. She quickly ran away when she saw my dad leaving us and starting a new family with someone else and a new kid, it made her eyes filled with tears.
When I watched my mom running away, it hurt my heart so much, but I tried not to cry.
I called out to my dad, but he just asked me who I was and told me to go home.
I walked quietly, feeling lost and confused. Why didn't my dad know me anymore? I'm his son. I tried not to cry as I followed my mom home.
"Mom, I'm home," I whispered. She was sitting at her desk, tears falling silently. I snuck into my room, still puzzled by what happened. My thoughts made me so tired that I fell asleep.
That same day after I woke up, the world changed forever. It was still early at night, and the house was quiet, the kind of quiet that usually meant my mother was still asleep, or maybe working in her project or maybe drinking. I thought nothing of it at first. The air smelled faintly of last night's rain, the floorboards creaked under my feet the way they always did. But when I opened the door to her room, everything collapsed.
She was there, hanging from a rope fastened to the wooden beam.
For a moment, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing. She wasn't moving, and her body swayed just a little, as though the air had shifted when I entered. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, her face tilted forward. Her skin was pale, drained of every shade of warmth I had ever known. Beneath her, a chair lay on its side, the final evidence to her choice.
I froze. My throat tightened so much I couldn't breathe, my heartbeat pounding like a drum that wanted to split my chest open. I tried to call out, but my voice cracked into nothing. My legs felt like stone, yet somehow, I forced myself to move closer.
I reached out with shaking hands and touched her leg.
It was cold. Not the kind of cold from a cold breeze or a chilled room—this was a terrible, death cold, the cold of something that would never return. My fingers recoiled as if I had touched a fire instead of cold, the memory of that icy skin was embedded inside my brain.
I stumbled back, gasping for air. Then, with what little strength I had left, I bolted out the door. My fists pounded against the neighbor's door so hard my knuckles hurt, my voice breaking as I begged them to come.
When they saw me, crying and panicking, they followed. And when their eyes fell on her. One of them covered their mouth; another turned away. They moved quickly after that—someone called the ambulance, someone else tried to pull me away, but I clung to the doorway, shaking, refusing to leave her sight.
Minutes later, the loud sirens can be heard down the street, it was echoing between the walls of the houses. The paramedics rushed inside, They did everything they could, moving as fast as their bodies would allow. but I could see it in their eyes—they already knew. Still, they tried. They laid her down, checked her pulse, pressed their tools against her chest. But it did not change.
"It's too late," I heard one of them murmur, his voice quiet, careful.
My world shattered with those words.
I cried until I couldn't see. Tears blurred everything into shapes and shadows. The walls around me felt smaller, the air keep getting heavier. Every corner, every piece of furniture, every shadow reminded me that she was gone.
When they carried her out, I followed behind. The rain started again—soft at first, then pouring, soaking everything. It felt like even the sky was crying. The neighbors stood quietly, some whispering, some shaking their heads. I didn't hear them, I heard none of it. My eyes were fixed only on her.
They lifted her into the ambulance. I climbed in too, my chest heaving, my body trembling. Inside, the white lights made her look even paler, her face drained of color and warmth. I reached for her hand—it was stiff, and cold like stone. I pressed it between my palms, trying to give it warmth, trying to bring her back.
The words poured out of me, cracked and desperate.
"I'll be good, I promise," I sobbed. "I'll wash the clothes. I'll clean the dishes every day. I'll cook for us. I'll be better at school. I won't cry when I get nightmares. I won't be scared of thunder anymore. Just please... please wake up. Mom! Don't leave me! Please!"
My voice rose until I was screaming, until the paramedics looked away because they could not bear to watch.
"I won't ask for candies, I won't ask for toys. I won't make you angry, I won't trouble you anymore. I'll do anything—just stay with me. Even a little longer. Please!"
But there was nothing. Her hand stayed cold, her eyes will be closed forever. I pressed my forehead against her arm, shaking with every sob.
"I don't want toys. I don't want higher grades. I don't want anything," I whispered, my voice breaking apart. "I just want you back. Please... come back."
And when no answer came, I lifted my head toward the ceiling of that cold ambulance, toward the heaven that showed no mercy, and I asked the only thing left in me to ask.
"God... Why her? Why not me instead? I... can't understand... why"
No reply came. Only the rain, pounding harder against the roof, as if the whole world wept with me.