Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

16 | Stuck In Park

JUEVES
3:50 PM

Dahlia Gray

Josie and Hannah met with me this morning to warn me about the dinner, and how it's been postponed since Hannah's mother had to go on an urgent business trip. The dinner has been moved to a separate date—still undeclared—but they'll keep me posted if anything happens.

It was good, I guess. It was supposed to be tomorrow and I still haven't gotten the chance to tell my father about it.

I pull out my earbuds the moment I step foot into the house, closing the door behind me with caution. I slip out of my shoes, wrapping the white strings around my phone case as I end the music with a pause.

I know my father isn't home right now—he works a ten to seven shift—and it was for the better. I didn't want to see him. He still hasn't fixed the outlet in my room and I've come to the conclusion of YouTube as my replacement for a father.

We haven't talked since that day.

I pick up the eerily silence of the house and figure my mother has taken a break from cooking and is upstairs in her bedroom. I ascend up the spiral staircase and drop my backpack in the front of my door before moving in the direction of my mother's room.

I wanted to tell her about the good news, of how I'm going to accept the internship—which starts in two weeks—but the moment I open the door, instead of bursting in with excitement and a grin plaster to my lips—everything dropped when I'm met with my mother's weeping figure.

"Mami!" I exclaim, climbing onto the bed as I reach my mother sitting on the edge of the mattress. She lays back against the bedframe, the comforter wrapped around her small frame, and tears streaming down her face with bloodshot eyes. "¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasa?" What's happened? What's wrong?

My mother sniffs her nose, but doesn't say anything, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. I maneuver over her fragile body, grabbing a tissue from the box and dabbing it against her skin. I watch as she tries to conceal her sadness with a soft smile. "Estoy bien." I'm fine.

"No, no lo estás." No, you're not. I say, examining her. Her black hair clipped back with a few loose strands framing her face, her skin looking gauntly under the light. I cup her chin, raising her gaze to meet mine. I repeat. "¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasa?" What's happened? What's wrong?

She stares into my brown eyes and her blue eyes begin to grow cloudy. She had to force herself from my touch, looking away. I pull back my hand, my brows scrunch in confusion. "No puedo," I can't, she chokes, "te pareces mucho a tu padre." You look so much about your father.

A small fire ignites in my chest, fueled with the knowledge that her source of pain was coming from him. I clench my jaw, trying my hardest not to project my frustration onto my mother. She doesn't deserve any of this.

"Mami," I mumble quietly, scooting closer to her as I wrap my arms around her frame. "No tienes que llorar." You don't have to cry.

She lets out a forced laugh, as if she was trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't work. I hold my mother closer, squeezing her tightly—hoping that I could take all of her sadness away.

I feel my mother's hand slip from under the comforter, and touch the base of my head, stroking my dark roots. "Siento que todo es mi culpa." I feel like everything is my fault.

My chest tightens as I hold her. I shake my head, wordlessly telling her that it isn't her fault. It's never her fault. It's my father.

I don't know the cause of her tears but I could give a couple of guesses on how they came to be. The first thought popped through my head was how my father always mistreats my mother, how he always tells her that she's worthless and doesn't contribute anything to the house. The only thing she's good for is cooking.