Mother Knows Best, Doesn't She?

There are two types of mothers in the world: those who love their children and those who neglect them. I do not know which category to put mine.

“Talk to me, Silas.” My mother said in her soft silky voice, looking at me like she will give me the world if I ask her to. I scoff. As if.

I don’t speak to her. It hurts me even to give her a glimpse. I remain silent and let the noise from the television filled the room.

“Last night, CCTV footage of a man killing a woman barehanded was leaked online…”

No one is listening to the reporter as he describes the gory scene. We do not care. What my mother and I are facing is a lot bigger than a silly video. Hesitantly, I look at my mother and see the lines etched on the side of her eyes. She looks older than her age; no wonder no man tries to woo her after my bastard of a father left us.

She was only eighteen when she had me. Her parents disowned her when she refused to get an abortion. She worked in a restaurant during the day, and she volunteered in the orphanage at night. Her volunteer work at the orphanage gave us free rent and food. The people there were nice, that my mother was not worried about leaving me behind when she went to work. Every Friday, she sacrificed a fraction of her savings to surprise me with small toys and treats. Even though she was exhausted and sleep-deprived, she made sure she could read me a bedtime story after she tucked me in. I never forgot the excited gleam in her eyes when she bought me a new pair of shoes while she wore her ugly slippers—violet paper clips were used to hold the green straps to the flat soles; a red yarn was sewn to tie the torn parts of the straps.

There are two types of mothers in the world: those who love their children and those who neglect them. I do not know which category to put mine.

“I cannot say no to you, Silas. I promise to give you anything you need.” Her delicate hand reaches my fist on the table and grips it gently. Her hair is swaying behind her back like waterfalls. The white dress that she wears makes her look pure and feminine. Too bad her pink lipstick doesn’t conceal her lies.

“Remember the kid from the orphanage?” She asked, her eyes sweet and calm.

Yeah, I do. His name was Ringgo. The orphanage was busy during that time because it was someone’s birthday party. I forgot whose. As an exuberant six-year-old boy, I joined all the games. When someone tried to stop me, saying I should let the others play, I threw tantrums until they bent to my will. I won ten out of fifteen games; stuff toys and candies filled my arms after collecting my rewards. It made me so proud to have the highest number of prizes until I saw Ringgo’s prize—a bar of white chocolate. He was too stupid; he only won one game. Looking at my rewards, I realized I didn’t have a white chocolate.

When my mom got home that night, I told her I wanted Ringgo’s white chocolate. She made sure no one was looking when she shyly approached Ringgo and nicely asked him if he could give his white chocolate to me. Ringgo clutched the chocolate to his chest and said no. My mom slapped his cheek so hard his teeth rattled. She forcefully snatched his white chocolate and gave it to me with a sweet smile on her face. I ate the chocolate in front of Ringgo’s crying face. Good old memories.

There are two types of mothers in the world: those who love their children and those who neglect them. I do not know which category to put mine.

“It doesn’t change the fact that you failed me this time, Mom. You told me you will protect me but you didn’t!” I bang my forehead on the table and keep on banging it until my mom puts her hands on the table to cushion my forehead. I heard her bones crack but she doesn’t complain.

“Silas, I protected you. Remember our neighbor, Jared?” She cradles her broken fingers on her chest after I stop banging my head to remember who the fuck was Jared.

I was thirteen years old when my mother saved enough money to rent a small house in a decent neighborhood. Jared, the fifteen-year-old boy whose family owned the biggest house in the area, was a big bully.

“Oh look, the orphanage boy.”

“What’s that smell? Smells like someone who can’t afford a decent soap.”

“Silas… Silly-ass. Silly-ass.”

His rich friends laughed at all the jokes he made when I passed by. I clenched my fist, swearing that one day I would get back at him.

That day came on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. My mother and I just came from the park when I saw Jared playing with his new car toy in front of their big house… alone. I didn’t think about the consequences and all the bullshits; I just marched over him and punched him right in the eye. My knuckles hurt at the impact it made on his bone. He landed on his butt and cried like the weakling that he was.

His mother went out of their house as my mother hid me behind her back, shielding me from what was to come. I smirked, wondering how my mom would get me out of this situation this time.

“I would report your child to the Neighborhood Watch! I’ll make sure they would make him clean the public toilet for a whole week, you rascal!” Jared’s mother threatened as she tended to her son, who was still crying his heart out. One of their maids was already calling the authority.

“Your drama queen of a son accidentally hit his eye with his car toy. Stop blaming my child for the mistakes he didn’t make!”

The two mothers hurled insults and expletives at each other until the Neighborhood Watch arrived. Jared’s mother explained the story while Mom contradicted everything that she said. There was something amusing about two adults who were supposed to be mature citizens, bickering like children. I was enjoying every second of it until the officer’s next words made me and my mom stiffened.

“Don’t worry about a thing, ladies. I’ll just check the CCTVs and get back to you. Won’t take an hour.” He sounded bored, like two mothers bickering over their children was something he was used to. For the first time, I broke into a cold sweat. I imagined myself cleaning those stupid smelly toilet bowls, and I just wanted to die. I whimpered and held my mother’s skirt tightly. My eyes watered as my lips trembled.

A gentle hand nudged my shoulder, urging me to look up. The sunlight illuminated my mother’s sweet face as the sky stretched behind her. Her mahogany hair swirled around her head like a halo as she spoke her usual lines, “I’ll take care of it.”

After returning from his drive to the CCTV room, the officer told us the CCTV footage was deleted for unknown reasons. Jared’s mother went ballistic. We went home without resolving the minor conflict.

That night, the officer went to our house and spent the night in my mother’s bedroom. I did not understand the significance of that detail when I was young. Now, I do.

“You remember now? The length I could take to protect you?” She asked in her solemn voice, the one she always uses to calm me. It only grates my nerves.

“Then, why can’t you protect me now?” I demanded. Because she cannot give me an answer, she sidetracks again.

“Nobody hurts you and gets away with it. Remember Chesca? Remember what I did?”

Of course, I do. That’s the most creative thing my mother had pulled off throughout the years.

I was eighteen years old when I had my first girlfriend, Chesca. She was babysitting the male toddlers in the house next to us. She was smart, pretty, and hardworking. All the boys at campus envied me when we were together. I loved the feeling of possessing something others wanted to have, but couldn’t.

So when she broke up with me because I cheated on her, I was so furious! The heck was wrong with that bitch? Was she trying to humiliate me? What would the other boys think if they found out that she dumped me? Damn that bitch.

The following day, rumors about her spread like wildfire. She was the subject of all the student gossip on campus and the people in the hair salon. The whole neighborhood treated her as if she was carrying a contagious disease. 

“Get out of here and never come back! Or else, I’ll call the police on you!” Our neighbor shouted as she pushed Chesca out of her house. I smirked.

“Mrs. Bradford, please. It’s not true. I—”

“If you ever come to see my boys again, I will have you arrested!” Mrs. Bradford slammed the door in her face. All the people in the area were gawking at her as if she was an interesting specimen.

Chesca was a pedophile who used small boys to get off. She had a photo collection of naked little boys stored in her cellphone. She even had a video of herself touching small boys inappropriately. She was also involved in child trafficking, and being a babysitter was her way to get close to her victims. That was the rumor said.

My mom and I shared a knowing look. I did not have to ask where that rumor started; I knew. Together, we watched Chesca ran out of the street with her head bowed down in shame while her shoulders shook with sobs. That was the last time we saw her.

There are two types of mothers in the world: those who love their children and those who neglect them. I do not know which category to put mine.

My mother, like all the usual mothers, protect and defend her child with all that she got. She could be a warrior, an actress, or a seducer, depending on what her child needs. Sometimes, I wanted to test how far my mother could go in protecting her son. I wish I didn’t.

“How about this, huh?! Can you protect me from this?!” I push my two fists in front of me, handcuffs binding my wrists. My hands were trembling, sweat pooled under my armpits. My mother gazed at the handcuffs with guilt.

“Son, how can I—”

“Tell them I’m innocent! Seduce the judge! Lie for me!” I shouted at her face, my body shaking with rage and frustration. The back of my eyes burned with the incoming tears. “You did it before; why can’t you do it again?!”

“How, son? How could I defend you after you choked me to death?”

“Last night, CCTV footage of a man killing a woman barehanded was leaked online. The suspect, identified as Silas Fortes, was caught killing his own mother, Sue Fortes, in their backyard in broad daylight. His mother was rushed to St. Luke’s Hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival.”