Imprint burned and exposed

It's the anniversary of my mother's disappearance.

"There you are." My grandmother says the second she sees me on the doorstep. "She's here!" She shouts into the house and I force a smile as she holds out her arms.

It's not a choice, hugging my grandmother. Before I knew her, I used to picture old, kindly women, with thick spectacles and cookies.

My grandmother is old, but that's about it. She's imperious, mean, and full of energy. I can sometimes understand why my mother ran away.

Grandmother steers me into the house, one clawed hand fixed on my forearm. Her eyes are always sullen, or narrowed in anger or suspicion.

Like always the clamour of family greets me, people I know and don't know crowding into my personal space, hugging and speaking.

My mother raised me alone, in a quiet flat in the heart of a busy city. Her cheerful friends and two boyfriends were the only family I was used to, but here there are uncles and aunts, cousins, in-laws.

A clown car of never-ending blood relations who think a shared last name makes us close.

"You must miss her so much." An aunt coos and I angle my eyes downwards, nodding awkwardly. The crowd around us waits, all staring.

I pull away, mumbling something to excuse myself. Grandmother's eyes narrow in annoyance, and some of my cousins exchange looks.

They were jealous at first, that I was exempt from the rules of this stifling household. Now they refrain from their comments and nudges, gossiping amongst themselves about their unkempt, untrained cousin.

In a quiet moment, I dash upstairs. As always, I enter my mother's old room. It's nothing like the way she kept our flat, which was vibrant and populated with plants and posters. This room is ruthlessly organized, something I remember of my mother, but it's also suspiciously colourless. Everything matches everything, and there are framed photos and nonfiction books.

I pick up one of the photos, an impossibly young version of my mother grinning next to a dark haired man. Every year I wonder, is this him?

My Grandmother would roll her eyes. "Your mother never loved anyone. She used some sperm donor's fetus to excuse running away to live some nonsense life of adventure."

But I remember the way my mother talked about him, late at night, usually after one of her friends convinced her to drink. Her slurred words held nothing but adoration and wistfulness.

Nobody in this family talks about him at all.

I wipe my eyes, knowing I'll be ruthlessly mocked for the tears. Putting down the framed photo, I turn to leave and knock into the dresser, hard.

"Ow!" I hiss, crouching onto one knee, blinking away the pain. Breathing hard, I glare up at the dresser and spot it.

There's tape dangling off from under the lip of the dresser. I frown, curling my fingers under the wood. There's a small nook and after a brief struggle a small, rolled up thing comes out.

It's film. I recognize its shape from movies.

Clicking is the only warning I get and then the door flies open.

"What on earth are you doing on the floor?" Grandmother asks, and I stand up, smoothly transferring the roll to a pocket.

"Oh, uh..." I catch the uncomfortable way Grandmother's eyes scan the room.

In a few, sharp strides she goes to reposition the frame I moved earlier back to its spot. Barely, do I stop my eyes from rolling.

My mother is gone, possibly dead. Whatever. I sincerely doubt she's ever returning to the kid's bedroom she abandoned at seventeen.

"Come on, you need to see your uncle." My grandmother commands, and I follow her out, following her orders like every other money-hungry puppet in this family.

My uncle's room is across from my mother's, and I hate myself for not visiting more.

He had an accident and has since been rendered incapable of living by himself. But he's my mother's twin, and by all accounts, her best friend in the house.

"Yasmine?" He rasps for a second when I first enter, and I wait. He always realizes.

"No. No, you're not-where's Yasmine?" He asks, peering at me like it's hard to see me.

I swallow thickly and sit down near him. It creeps me out a little to see him, his eyes a perfect copy of my mom's, his hair the same shade. But right as I got to know him, he's been forever changed. "She's not here."

My uncle turns his head towards me slowly, humming a little. Spit has gathered near the corners of his upturned lips. "She better get here fast, or the old bitch will get mad." My uncle leans towards me, voice dropping conspiratorially. "It's her birthday. Mhmm." He leans back, mumbling unintelligibly.

I eye the photos lining the walls. "You take a lot of pictures?"

"Before." He gestures to his head. "Then I became..." He frowns and trails off.

"Do you know who Yasmine's boyfriend was?" I ask him quietly.

My uncle stares at me. "Yas wo'be mad if I said."

I sighed. My mother had always spoken fondly of her brother. He was the only one who ever knew where she was. That's how I knew she was probably dead.

My mother would never abandon her brother if he was like this. Never.

"She didn't deserve him." My uncle mutters quietly, and then grins at me wickedly when I look at him. "Yas, you should no' have gotten a nose job. You look stupid. Stupid."

I lean over to grab his hand. "She really loved you. I'm sorry."

My uncle's eyes glaze over slightly. "It's their wedding."

"What?"

"Their secret wedding." He waves his hand, head lolling sideways. "With their secret baby. I think it's a boy. But Yas wan' a girl."

"Oh." It breaks my heart a little to see him like this. "You filmed their wedding?"

Daniel, my uncle, huffs. "I'm tired."

"Okay." I readjusted the blanket around him. "I love you." Not really, I barely know the guy, but my mother always said it at the end of their calls.

"No problem, bye." Is the reply as I shut the door.

My grandmother is right outside once I exit, and it takes everything in me not to swear when I see her.

"How is he?" She asks, watching my face keenly.

I'm not one for eye contact, so I look away, irritated. "Fine. Tired."

"I should have given them more time." My Grandmother says after a moment and I look at her, surprised.

She's always maintained that her children, Natalie and Daniel, had too much time on their hands. Everything they asked for, and they were useless, rebellious, altogether ungrateful brats.

Grandmother sniffs without any tears, dabs at her eyes a little and fixes me with a steely look. "Don't you ever tell him that you think your mother's dead. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I'd have to be an idiot to do that." I reply, without really thinking about it and Grandmother narrows her eyes.

"Don't you try that with me, young lady. Your mother had an IQ of 130, not particularly impressive, but she wasn't stupid either. And look what she ended up doing with her life." Grandmother exhales forcefully and I cross my arms.

"She lived a really happy life, surrounded with friends and family." I counter, and throw my arm out to gesture at the house. "Not surrounded by greedy leeches who have done nothing with their lives."

"Enough." Grandmother glares at me. "You think your mother ignoring her potential and becoming yet another poor, single mother was some kind of accomplishment? Get your head on straight, and until you do, leave my house."

I stormed past, more than happy to acquiesce. Time and time again, I asked my mom if she wanted more, something else.

Maybe it was kindness, or maybe the truth, but she always maintained that she did everything she wanted to. She had a job, had me, and had her plants.

Flagging down the first taxi I saw, I blurted out my address, still fuming.

I took out the roll of film in my pocket and unrolled it, turning on my phone's torch to study the images.

A woman in a bright red dress, holding hands with a man. Unconventional to the end, I smiled. They were laughing, happy. She already had a bit of a bulge.

They were in some wooded area, holding hands and standing close. They barely even looked at the camera, mostly looking at each other.

My heart broke a little, imagining my gleeful, excited uncle filming his sister's secret wedding. Imagining this strange man in the film, with a personality and life of his own. One I'd never get to see or be a part of.

And my mother. Still smiling, young, with her whole life ahead of her.

"What happened to you?" I murmured, wondering again how every time I got closer to the answers, something happened.

My father's disappearance. My uncle's accident. My mother vanishing without a trace. Where are you?

And like most of the questions that plagued my life, this one too went unanswered and unheard.