Broken Image

When I walked in the door, the apartment was quiet. I put my keys on the tray next to the door, took off my shoes, and turned down the hallway. It was dark, only the area in front of my bedroom shone brightly, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. 

Mom should be home by now. Unless… My shoulders drooped. Unless she worked late again. 

I called out for her. No response. 

I peeked into the living room. Her purse was next to the desk and her computer sat on standby. She should be home. 

“Mom,” I called again. 

Still no answer. 

I checked her bedroom. Nothing. 

It would be another evening spent by myself. I sighed.

Yet, when I walked down the dark hallway, I heard muffled sobbing. I followed the sound to the kitchen. My eyebrows knitted together in anticipation and readying myself for anything, I approached the door. 

The lights were off, and the remaining daylight had surrendered to the shadows. I stopped at the doorway. Slowly, I reached around the corner and felt for the light switch. 

With a flip, the kitchen burst into existence. The shadows were gone, and there in the middle of the kitchen floor sat my mother, shoulders hunched over and sobbing. 

My fingers dug into the doorframe as I sucked in a sharp breath. Torn between wanting to rush to her side and running to my room, I hovered at the threshold, swaying back and forth.

The scene felt surreal. Was this really my mother? Was the woman with her arms curled around her knees really her? 

The tips of my fingers ached. 

No. My mom was strong, always had been strong. That person on the floor over there must be someone else. She could not be my mother because my mom was independent and fierce. There was nothing she could not do, nothing she did not know, nothing she could not achieve. 

Tears caught in the corners of my eyes. What was I to do? 

All my life, she had handled it all - the bad news, the good news, the worries, the hopes, the anxiety, the euphoria, the trauma, and the healing - all with an immutable smile on her face that told me I was going to be fine because she was there. 

My heart fluttered and my knees felt weak.

Seeing her cry, sitting there on the tiled kitchen floor, hunched over, her head hanging and shoulders trembling, shook me to my core. Honestly, until that moment I never thought much about my mother as a person. She was mom. The person who cared for me, checked my homework, read books to me, and demanded my room be clean enough to avoid critters and a tetanus infection. She was always there when I needed her. What was I to do? 

All I was able to do was stand there, in the door, with trembling hands. My mind paralyzed by reality, panic assumed control. I heard the sobs but could not fathom the reality of where they were coming from. Unsure of how to react and what to do, a million thoughts ran amok in my head, causing chaos and disorder. Under my breath, I whispered in panic, “I swear it was not me. Please, please stop crying. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Eventually, I gained control over my body, unclench my fingers from the doorframe and pushed myself off. Tentatively, I approached her, the stranger sitting on the tiled floor. I held my breath as I took a cautious step toward her on the balls of my feet. Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other in a futile effort to avoid unraveling reality and throw the entire universe towards the unknown. But reality was already out of sync.

By the time I reached her, the irony taste of blood filled my mouth. I must have bitten my lip. Thick wet tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I kneeled down beside her, slung my arms around her, and put my head on her shoulder. I had no words. No one prepared me for a situation like this. No one had ever told me the right words to use in a situation like this. 

Tears fell from my cheek as I cried silently into my mom’s sweater, leaving a wet stain on her shoulder. Quietly, I said the only words I could think of, “I love you.”

Her head lifted slightly, and the sobbing halted. There was smudged mascara under her red eyes and dark streaks left behind by tears on her cheeks. With her index fingers she cleared the tears around her eyes, blinked a few times, and kissed me on the forehead. 

“Thanks, honey,” she said and smiled at me. But the smile was different. It wasn’t the eternal, unrelenting smile of a caring mother who would protect me from the nastiness of the world. It was a broken smile, drenched in sorrow and layered over anguish. 

My heart ached, threatening to shatter. I tightened my jaw and slung my arms around her once more. Although I didn’t know who or what had caused my mom such anguish, I wanted to protect her, protect her the way she had always protected me. 

So, I dried my tears and stuck my chin out. I loosened my embrace and kissed her on both cheeks, the way she did to me, and said, “It’s going to be okay.” 

I must have said something wrong because tears began forming in the corner of her eyes, spilling beyond them and streaking down her cheeks like waterfalls after a downpour. Unsure about the next steps, I kneeled before her with an encouraging smile I didn’t own. Powerless, I watched her cry, incapable to tear my eyes from hers. 

With trembling hands, I reached for hers. I grabbed them, holding them between mine, pressing them against my chest. How could I make her pain go away? How could I return her to her former self? How could I make her mom again?

From somewhere afar, I heard myself repeat the words she had said to me many times before. “Whatever it is, we got this. We’ll fix it together, get through it together, or overcome it. Whatever it is, it won’t hold you back or keep you down. This is not the end, just a hurdle. You’ll see, you’ll be stronger in the end.”