Until Dad had enough and let her go.
She never forgave him for that. Until the day she died.
“He’s the reason I’m like this,” she told me once, crying over her own vomit after I put my fingers in her mouth.
That’s what I learned to do when she got too drunk. I had to make her vomit, then take her to her room and help her wash her hair. After that, I’d tuck her in as she mumbled words I couldn’t understand.
“I love you, Preston, you know that, right?” She sniffled and stroked my hair. “Mon petit chou…mon trésor.”
My sweet little one.
My treasure.
That’s what she always called me.
That’s what made me stay by her side even though sometimes, she was too busy feeling sorry for herself, getting drunk, and chasing a high that never came.
And when she finally saw me that night exactly fifteen years ago, broken and just…an empty fucking shell, she couldn’t bear it.
I lean back against the car seat, staring at the lighter.
The images from that day coming in small lightning flashes.
My jaw hurts as hushed,broken grunts fill my ears and the stench of cologne and overpowering mint gags me. A brick sits on top of me, completely immobilizing me.
But it’s okay.
Because I’m staring at the ceiling, at those little stars in my room. They look like me sometimes, far away and disconnected and just…not here.
Not sure why, all of a sudden, my dead eyes stare at my door. I used to look at my door weeks ago.
When this brick came to my room the first time and I couldn’t breathe.
“Maman?” I called out stupidly that time, thinking she’d come to check on me.
But it wasn’t Mom.
Not that time.
Not the next.
I guess a part of me knew she’d come for me at some point.
She’d know.
She’d feel it.
Jude says moms know. Moms should know.
She’d save me.
I waited and waited, and she finally came.
Today.
She’s standing right there in her white silk robe, her face nearly turning the same color as the fabric.
I’ve always wanted Mom to come, but in this moment, I wish she hadn’t.
