“Why does she do that?” I asked Mallory one day.
“Because she’s sad.”
I didn’t understand why we had to hide, but Mallory insisted that we couldn’t help her.
I still remember the moment when she whispered in my ear, “We’re what makes her sad.”
We’re what makes her sad.
She never wanted to be a mother. She was destined for greatness but forced to fall into a role she didn’t want.
No matter how much we begged, we couldn't make her stay.
The day my mother packed her bags her face was cold and lifeless. It didn’t matter that I was crying in front of her or that I tugged on her arm as she walked to the car.
“Please don’t go.”
She shook me off. “I can’t do this anymore!”
“Please. I’ll be better. I won’t ever upset you again,” I pleaded.
She rolled her eyes. “Stop!”
I let go, startled by how abrupt she was. “Don’t you love me?”
I was scared of her answer because it was the lifelong question I’d pushed to the side. It’s an understood truth that a mother should love their child, but mine only seemed to notice me when I acted out.
She didn’t reply for a moment, then she looked directly at me. “If you wanted me to love you, then you should’ve made it easier.”
That was it.
The last thing she said to me before she left.
I walk into the dining room, greeted by the empty table that’s far too big for one person.
On the table is a muffin and banana Dad set out for me before he left. I know he’s trying, but I want him, not this. I want the dad who would come into my room right after work, no matter how late it was, to read me a bedtime story. The dad who put me on his shoulders as we walked down the street despite working over sixty hours that week just because my legs were tired.
Everyone called my sister and me “cookie-cutter kids” growing up because I looked so much like Mallory. We had the same dark brown hair and eyes. Mallory’s lips were a little fuller and my feet were a size larger, but side by side we almost looked like twins, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why Dad refuses to look at me now.
I’m a constant reminder Mallory is gone, and I can’t fill her shoes. Despite how similar we looked, our similarities stopped there. I’m a senior now, but I’m wading—drowning alittle, if I’m being honest—through school while this time last year she was on track to be valedictorian.
She knew what she wanted to do in life. She had to because she had a plan for everything from the time she woke up to the time she went to sleep. She kept a strict schedule, every second called for, and she hated interruptions.Iwas a walking interruption, so I left her alone most of the time, but I can’t help but wonder: if I had paid more attention to her, would I have been able to save her?
Would I have been able to stop Myles?
I bring my glass of water to my lips, taking a sip to clear the lump in my throat.
Dad’s spot at the table sticks out like a sore thumb.
I’ve tried to do better. To be calmer. Smarter. I try not to cause trouble anymore, and I tell myself I’m doing it for him, but the truth is I don’t want to explore the world anymore. It isn’t as wonderful as young Emma once thought. It’s full of darkness—pain and heartache—and once that darkness catches you, there’s no point in running after the light. Darkness always wins. Every happy memory gets clouded over by a film of reality, becoming sad.
It’s hard and lonely.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to being the girl who was excited by the endless possibilities of a sunny day. The young me. She’d run through the yard till her side hurt from breathing in too much. She’d catch the spiders in her house before someone stomped on them with a shoe and she’d release them into the yard. She’d sneak out in the middle of school to buy an ice cream bar at the nearest gas station. Everything was an adventure. She lived each day to the fullest.
Now I just survive.
A hammering sound pulls me out of my thoughts. At first it sounds like a knock on our door, but it’s too consistent.Tap, tap, tap, tap.It’s clearly coming from our front yard though.
