As the aroma of our dinner filled the air, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was somehow different. The way my parents exchanged glances hinted at an unspoken tension, a secret lingering beneath the surface. Something my small curious mind, at the time at least, hadn’t been able to fully comprehend. With every bite, the unease grew stronger.
Our dinners usually aren’t like this, in fact our dinners were quite the opposite. We’d usually spend our evenings struggling to finish our dinner, mom would be laughing and so would dad, food barely being contained to their mouths. But tonight was different, very different. The usual smiles that were glued upon their faces were now faces filled with disgust and sadness, even at such the young age of twelve, I understood the concept of rage.
Midway through our meal, my mother excused herself from the table, her footsteps echoing out of the dining room and up the stairs towards the second floor, down the hallway. Seizing the opportunity, I turned to my father, curiosity tugging at my mind. He sighed, his eyes heavy with concern. “Dad, something’s off. What’s going on?”
He hesitated before leaning in, his voice a low whisper. “Listen closely, kiddo. Just trust me, alright?” I nodded, understanding the look in my father’s eyes, a look that signified to not question him in his moment of solitude.
As to not poke the bear, I did exactly that, I didn’t question my father and I would continue to eat my food.
Now, I did want to talk to him. And maybe I should have said something, maybe if I had said something things might’ve turned out differently. Maybe if I had shown him that I acknowledged his existence, He would’ve had a change of heart.
Or maybe that’s still the kid inside of me wishing that things played out differently. The illusion of choice is often fueled by the fear of guilt, an illusion.
Minutes stretched like hours as we sat and ate in silence, and I could hear the seconds ticking away. Finally, I couldn’t resist the urge any longer. I excused myself from the dinner table and made my way upstairs to check on my mother. At the top of the stairs, a familiar subtle click sent a shiver down my spine, and a pit formed in my stomach.
As I entered my parents’ room, I saw my mother, her face pale as she knelt on the closet floor. My voice trembled as I called out to her, my heart racing. She startled, and in her haste, a magazine of bullets tumbled to the rug.
“What are you doing, Mom?” I questioned, my voice rising, a mix of fear and anger.
She covered my mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with desperation. In a hushed tone, she pleaded, “Quiet, my love. Do you trust me?”
With a nod, I conveyed my reluctant agreement. Our eyes locked for a lingering moment, a silent exchange of understanding. Then, her lips moved, barely making a sound as she whispered, “That man downstairs isn’t your father.”
Confusion twisted my thoughts as I struggled to comprehend her words. My mother wasn’t a violent woman, nor was she a woman who had ever wielded a gun, at least to my knowledge. Before I could question her further, she propelled me into the closet, her touch urgent yet gentle. The metallic clang of bullets loading filled the dark and silent room, and I watched her from the closet as she deftly prepared a weapon.
As the seconds melted into minutes, dread gnawed at me. The weight of her revelation settled heavily, my heart racing in response. The minutes dragged on as the minutes downstairs continued to tick by.
Finally, she pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead, her gaze holding mine with fierce determination. Then, with swift resolve, she descended the stairs, leaving behind only the soft and slow echoes of her footsteps.