Mother

It was the middle of the summer and I was lazily stretching myself on a white hammock which hanged between two palm trees. The palm leaves swayed back and forth, flirting with the gentle sea breeze. I was halfway-finished with the book I was currently reading that moment. I felt like I’ve been lying there under the trees’ shade for quite some time now and yet boredom still did not hit me.

The waves crashed on the shore, disturbing the shells and sand. The water was slowly pulling them together with it as it retreats back to the sea after hitting the shoreline. Nothing else can be heard other than the waves and breeze. The beach emanated peace and I never wanted to leave. Ever.

I sat up and saw a man was approaching me, carrying a tall glass of fruit shake, topped with a tiny umbrella. It was a strawberry shake, my favorite. I lowered my sunglasses and gave him a smile to thank him as he handed me the drink. He smiled back and, oh, did he have a cute smile. He just stood there, smiling as I took a sip of the shake. I could tell that he wanted to say something to me and I was sitting there, sitting my shake in anticipation. He was just about to utter a word when suddenly someone called out my name.

“Maria!” It was a shrill voice from a distance. “Maria, where are you?”

In a flash, the guy, the hammock, and the beach vanished before my eyes and I found myself in a small dim room, atop an unmade bed with an electric fan directed at me. The door suddenly swung open and I saw my mother standing outside, sweating and obviously ready to burst.

“You’re hiding up here again? Don’t you have anything else to do?” She took a look around my room and there it all began. “How could you live in such a filthy place? Start cleaning up! Start fixing your bed.”

I stood up and started to arrange my pillows. I didn’t say a word as I did what I was told. But she didn’t stop talking. She went on telling me that I had to clean the area downstairs since she still had to do some kitchen duty. Her mouth did not stop. I didn’t listen to every word that she said anymore. I didn’t want to anymore. It would have been useless, anyway. Nothing would stop her nagging and answering back would only aggravate things and make her speech longer.

She stomped down the stairs still shouting out complaints and orders. It was always this way everyday. Her voice was the only constant thing that would be heard in the house. She never stopped complaining and nagging. And that made me hate the fact that I lived in the same house as her. I always wanted to be somewhere else, a place without her. That’s the reason for my constant daydreaming. Dreaming was the only way I could feel a bit better in the house.

Sometimes, her complaints would lead to scolding. And as she’s go on verbally attacking me, I’d keep my eyes glued to the floor or somewhere else, yearning to just disappear. I would wish the ground to just swallow me up and muffle her voice. But nothing happens and I just stand there, feeling a lump rise in my throat, tears welling up in my eyes. It hurts and still I don’t talk.

Once, I was busy dusting the living room while mom was outside, cleaning up the garden. She was sweeping the lawn, collecting the dry leaves that fell from the bushes and trees around. A woman in a business suit passed by our house, carrying folders and a huge bag. I saw my mother stop her work and look at her in silence as the woman went on her way. In a split second, I saw something in my mother’s eyes but it just disappeared as she stooped down to continue her work. What I saw was not any of my mother’s usual emotions or expressions. It was neither anger nor stress. It was something totally different.

Mom had such big dreams when she was a teenager. She wanted to be a businesswoman working in one of the country’s prominent and successful companies. She wanted to be rich. My mother was a big dreamer and her dreams were what kept her going. She was beautiful and intelligent and she knew that these characteristics would take her places. But she was also sensitive and soft-hearted. And when she fell in love, she fell hard. Something just came over her and before she knew it, she had said yes to dad’s proposal. She got married at the age of 24 and with that her life took a swerve.

She was very happy with the decision but happiness doesn’t last. She realized that with that “I do,” she left her dreams to rot in the corner. For 17 years, she stayed at home, cleaning, cooking, and taking care of us, her three children. Mellissa is already 14, while Marko is still 10. I am their eldest daughter which meant I was the first physical evidence of mom’s broken dreams. Because of me, she had to leave everything behind. We were too poor to afford a maid and so she had to become a housewife. This, of course, saddened my mother but she had no choice. She had to stay home while dad goes out to earn a living. I would catch her letting out a sigh as dad gives her a peck on the cheek and breezes out the door.

And now I stare at her through the window, heaving a sigh as she goes back collecting the dry leaves. She let go of the life she wanted to have years ago. It was then that I realized that it was regret and jealousy that flashed in her eyes. The nagging and complaining was the fruit of her frustration toward herself. I don’t know if she’ll ever get over it and let go of what was then. It has been 17 years since the day she took the vow that changed her life’s course. Right now, I just have to finish my chores lest she comes in and sees me slacking around. I don’t want to hear her vent out her frustration on me. Not for the nth time today. And as I replace the picture frame on the table, I remind myself of the pact I made with myself. I will not repeat my mother’s mistakes.