My mother had her awakening after she divorced my father. Her new life, she declared, would be dedicated to loving herself. So she went to music festivals, flew to Cabo for girls’ weekends, and backpacked through Europe. She’d be gone for weeks, sometimes a month. What she seemed to forget was that the year of her great awakening, I was only five. Just a little girl who knew only how to stand in a dark house and cry for her mom. 1 I was in the middle of planning a graduation trip to Greece with my best friend, Chloe, when my mother’s name flashed on my screen. She told me she’d been in a car accident. She said she needed me. Her voice was thin and reedy, laced with a guilt that felt entirely foreign. But I didn’t hesitate. “Oh, wow. That’s tough,” I said, my tone breezy. “But my flight is in two days.” I paused, for effect. “Look, just… hang in there. I’ll be back in six months, we can talk then.” After I hung up, Chloe looked at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you don’t want to postpone?” I shook my head, turning back to the half-packed suitcase on my bed. “Nope. No need.” “But, Mia… that’s your mom.” I offered her a tight smile and said nothing. For years, every messenger she sent started with that exact line. She’s your mother. She gave birth to you. They’d tell me we were the closest two people on earth could be, that there was no wound too deep to forgive. The closest two people on earth. I used to believe that ridiculous idea, back when I was a child. It’s why, when my parents fought over custody, I chose her without a second’s thought. I thought she’d be the one to hold my hand while I grew up. That belief shattered on my fifth birthday, during a trip to Disneyland she’d begrudgingly agreed to. We were in a restaurant when we saw him—my father, remarried. The moment she spotted him, my mother was in the middle of snapping at me, shoving her backpack onto the stroller with a huff. “Mia, do you have any idea how much stuff I have to lug around just for you? This is the last time you beg me to come to this place, you hear me—” Her words choked off. My dad was sitting with a tall woman, both of them smiling so wide their eyes crinkled. Between them sat a little boy. For a second, I froze. Then, a joyful, instinctive cry of “Daddy!” started to form on my lips. Before it could escape, my mother’s fingers dug into my hand. Her nails felt like tiny daggers pressing into my skin. I looked up at her, my eyes welling with tears. “Mommy, that hurts,” I whimpered. She didn’t hear me. She was lost in her own world, her gaze locked on my father. I watched as her eyes turned red. The moment a tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek, my own tears started to fall. I buried my face in her leg, tugging on her hand. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m here. Don’t cry.” Her gaze dropped to me, a single tear landing on my face. It was ice cold. She reached out and touched my face, her fingers tracing a slow path from my forehead to my chin. Every inch, measured and deliberate. Then, her voice changed. “I never noticed before,” she whispered, her tone hollow. “You look just like him.” She stared at me, but I knew she wasn't seeing me anymore. “He was a monster. I wonder if you’ll grow up to be just as disgusting.” I stared up at her, at the raw grief in her eyes, and didn’t understand. I just knew that the way she was looking at me sent a spike of terror through my small body. A sob broke from my chest. But my mother just wiped her own tears away, pried my fingers from her dress, and walked away. She left my cries behind her, as decisively as if she were leaving me behind. After that day, everything changed. The morning pancakes disappeared. I learned to wait, my stomach aching, until she finally decided to get out of bed. Sometimes, when the hunger was too much, I’d fill my belly with cup after cup of cold tap water. I never dared to ask why there was no breakfast. I never dared to ask why she always looked at me with that strange, cold expression. I just tried to be quiet. I tried to be invisible. Until one afternoon, I was playing with a puzzle in my room, my stomach growling, when a sharp, pungent smell drifted through the door. I covered my nose and ran out. My mother was just coming out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming plate. When she saw me, her face split into a brilliant, unnerving smile. “You’re awake! Come, try Mommy’s new recipe.” 2 The plate was a sea of crimson red, dotted with a few pathetic-looking pieces of chicken. I instinctively recoiled. Chili peppers. I knew them. One of her friends, a woman named Sharon, had once dared me to eat one as a joke. The prank ended with me coughing and crying in the emergency room, my mother holding me and sobbing harder than I was. But now, her voice was bright, almost manic. “Before I had you, I lived on spicy food. It was my favorite,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a strange light. “You’re my daughter. I bet you’ll love it too.” She picked up a slice of pepper with her chopsticks and held it to my lips. “Go on, try a bite. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything this good.” I looked from the pepper to her smiling face, my own mouth trembling. After a long moment, I summoned my courage and took it. A searing heat exploded in my mouth, rocketing down my throat. Tears and snot streamed down my face as I choked. My mother burst out laughing. The sound was loud and clear, a sharp counterpoint to my desperate, gasping cries of “Mommy.” From that day on, the simple, mild dishes of my childhood were replaced by a parade of glossy, crimson meals. Each one felt less like dinner and more like a test. She would present the fiery plates with a flourish, then sit back and watch, a look of intense fascination on her face, as I cried my way through every bite. I forced it down. I shoveled the peppers into my mouth like a form of self-punishment, a single tear rolling down my cheek for every swallow. And through it all, I would force a smile and say, “It’s so yummy, Mommy.” Because only then would she transform back into the mother I remembered. Only then would she gently stroke my hair and murmur, “Good girl.” Until one night, a pain like a hot knife twisting in my gut woke me up. I stumbled out of bed, doubled over, and knocked on her door. It opened, and her footsteps stopped in front of me. I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but her voice was thick with annoyance. “What is it? Did you eat something bad?” The pain was so intense I could only curl into a ball on the floor, unable to speak. After a few seconds, a hand landed on my back, patting gently. A wave of relief washed over me, and I started to lean into her, ready to be held and comforted. But then I heard her mutter under her breath. “Such a pain. Another all-nighter.” A pause. “I can handle spice just fine. Why didn’t you get any of my genes?” In that instant, I looked up. And in the dim light from her room, I saw it clearly: the deep, profound annoyance in her eyes. The doctor called it acute gastritis and said I’d need an IV drip for a few days. My mother sat beside my hospital bed, silent, distractedly scrolling through her phone. After a long time, she turned to me. The strange delight she took in watching me eat the peppers was gone. So was the irritation from earlier. All that was left was an emotion I’d never seen before, something that terrified me. She took a deep breath, her voice clear and steady. “Mia, you being in the hospital has created a huge problem for me.” I stared at her, confused. Her voice was flat. “Did you know I have an important lunch meeting tomorrow? It’s something I’ve been looking forward to for a very long time.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “And now, because of you, everything has to be canceled.” My mouth opened, and a small voice came out. “I’m sorry, Mommy. It’s my fault.” Her expression remained cold. She said my name in the same tone she used to tell me to eat my dinner or go to bed. “Mia.” “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few days.” Her gaze, which had been drifting around the room, finally settled on me, sharp and determined. “After I married your father, I had no life of my own. There were endless chores. After you were born, it only got worse. I was so busy, so tired… I hated the person I saw in the mirror.” “My life just… stopped. It was all about the two of you.” As she spoke, her voice softened into something strangely gentle, almost wistful. “From now on, I’m going to live my own life.” I stared at her, the twisting pain in my stomach miraculously gone, replaced by a vast, hollow numbness that spread through my limbs like a fast-acting poison. She didn’t seem to notice the terror crystallizing in my eyes. She just looked at me. “Mia, you’re a big girl now. You’ll grow up, and you’ll understand. Right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Maybe she didn’t need one. She reached out and tucked the blanket around me, a gesture that was almost tender in its detachment. Then she picked up her purse from the bedside table and stood up. “Press the call button for the nurse when the IV bag is almost empty. I’ll be back in the morning.” The sharp click of her heels echoed in the hallway, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely. In the sterile silence of the hospital room, only one sound remained: my own voice, hoarse and broken, repeating the word “Mommy” over and over again. I didn’t understand what she’d said. I didn’t know what “living her own life” meant. But I felt it in my bones. My mommy was leaving me. 3 When my mother picked me up from the hospital, I clung to the hem of her skirt, my knuckles white. I hadn’t slept the entire night, convinced she would never come back. Seeing her walk through the door had been a dizzying relief. The moment we got home, a secret joy bloomed in my chest. See? She still wants me. But the second we were inside, I watched her pull a large suitcase from the hall closet. With a manic, joyful haste, she began throwing clothes and makeup inside. There was a lightness in her movements I’d never seen before, a smile playing on her lips. “Mommy?” I whispered, reaching for her hand. She didn’t look up. “Oh, I made plans with Sharon. We’re going to that music festival in the desert. I have to leave now if I’m going to make it on time.” I stood frozen. “Mommy, what about me?” She finally paused, her eyes skimming over my pale, sweat-slicked face without a flicker of concern. “The medicine is in the bag on the counter. You’re a big girl. You can take care of yourself for a few days.” A few days? The residual weakness from the hospital was instantly consumed by a tidal wave of panic. I grabbed her sleeve, tears streaming down my face. “Don’t go! I’m scared to be alone… my stomach still hurts… Mommy, please!” My cries were shrill in the quiet apartment. Her brow furrowed, the cheerful smile vanishing, replaced by a familiar, sharp-edged irritation. She yanked her arm away, the force of it sending me stumbling backward onto the cold tile floor. “What are you crying for? Stop it!” she snapped. “I said I’ll only be gone for a few days! Can’t you be a little more independent? Stop clinging to me all the time! I’m exhausted enough as it is.” Her voice rose, cracking with a frantic self-pity. “No one has ever helped me! I just want a moment to breathe! Why is that so much to ask?” The zipper on the suitcase shrieked as she pulled it closed. The doorbell rang. My mother’s face instantly transformed, the anger replaced by a bright smile as she hurried to the door. Outside stood Sharon, dressed in a trendy festival outfit, and her daughter, Jessica. Jessica was wearing a brand-new pink dress, clutching a beautiful doll, her face alight with excitement. Sharon’s eyes fell on me, and she flinched. A flicker of awkwardness crossed her face. “Oh, Mia. Look how big you’ve gotten.” I didn’t speak. I was afraid of this woman, the one who had made me eat the pepper. After that incident, my parents had a huge fight, and I hadn’t seen her since. Sharon must have remembered too. She gave a strained laugh and turned back to my mother. “Ready? The Uber’s waiting downstairs.” My mother grabbed the suitcase. “Let’s go, let’s go. We’ll be late.” They turned, laughing and chatting, as they walked away. My mother glanced back at me one last time, not with concern, but with a warning. “Be good and stay inside.” The heavy security door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. It cut off their laughter and locked my sobs inside. Through the thick metal, I faintly heard Sharon’s voice. “…Hey, are you sure about this? Leaving her alone? What if she tries to go outside?” My mother’s footsteps stopped. A few seconds of dead silence. Then, the distinct sound of a key sliding into the lock. Click. A clean, cold, metallic sound. From the outside, my mother had thrown the deadbolt.
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