My Mother’s Daughter

Sashamarie Long

“I’m sorry I'm late, the line at the store was long and there was really bad traffic because of the snow--” my mom said in a quiet frightened voice. 

My dad just stared at her from across the hall as he sat in his office, a freshly opened bottle of whiskey behind him. 

I quickly ran to the window. “Wow, look at all the snow, Tris! Yeah, it is really bad outside, Mom,” I made sure to speak loudly and securely so my father could hear.  

Ice did overflow the streets; thin sheets of snow covered the grass and laughter soon filled the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table while Tris watched her cartoons as usual. My father was in his office working the shitty job he hated or at least says it's shitty. I think it is pretty convenient for an alcoholic to work from home. Our Saturdays mostly consisted of this, crying followed by some cartoons, headphones jammed in my ears, my father sitting in misery at his desk, and the scent of my favorite breakfast filling the kitchen just as when I was a little girl. Something about the smell of blueberry waffles in the air, bright and early in the morning always brings me back to the days before Tris was even born, the good old days without crying and temper tantrums. At least when I was Tris’ age, I didn't fall asleep to yelling and head slams to the wall. I don't think Tris will ever know the true sound of a comforting lullaby. Now when Tris gets ready for bed, I play some music in our room loud enough to distract her from what's going on in the room next door. I sometimes play my violin for her, but you can never hear its true beautiful sound with what sounds like a loud deep drum banging, crescendoing in the background. It's one mess of a symphony and my mother is the only person in the house who even notices my love and passion for music, aside from Tris who can't even tell the difference between the sound of a violin and the sound of a cello. Nothing much has changed since growing up, Tris is now three, blueberry waffles smell the same, and my mom still can't seem to find a good full coverage foundation that matches her complexion. My mother never wanted me to see what my father was capable of, but luckily for her everyone wears scarves in the winter. 

“Aryah...Ari hello? Your waffles are getting cold, honey,” my mother said. 

I could’ve sworn everyone in the house could hear the thoughts coming out of my head, but Tris’ crying was too loud for that, and I could slowly see frustration start to show on our father’s face from across the hall. My mother told me to take my sister upstairs for a nap and so I did. She always tried protecting Tris from seeing what a monster our father could be but there's only so much a submissive mother can protect you from. 

I brought my sister to her room, tucked her into bed and played our usual song. I think the loud noises help Tris fall asleep; the quiet seems to frighten her because she doesn't know what a peaceful house sounds like. And as bad as it sounds, as long as I hear the yelling or my mom's weakened voice, at least I know she's still there. Tris is too little to understand any of this; she giggles every time she hears a loud boom and quickly hides under her blankets like it is a game. I play along with her, so she knows not to be frightened while praying in my head that our mother is still breathing by the time we finish. She eventually falls asleep, but I always stay awake listening, waiting for the banging and striking to slowly fade to then hearing an “I love you”. 

That's why I stay up, to protect my sister because if our father can still say he loves our mother and our family after all the banging and yelling, imagine what else he could do to Tris and me. I looked over to see Tris asleep on the bed, her little fists still held onto her sheets which lightly covered her face. I slowly creaked the door open and stepped around the corner to check the downstairs hall. I feel like our mother, scared and submissive, quietly watching my every step. I then heard quiet footsteps pacing by the bedroom door which I knew were Tris’, so I quickly went back to our room so she knew she was not alone. Soon Tris will be too old for naps, and I will be old enough to leave the banging and yelling, but I cannot leave Tris alone the same way my sister had left me. Soon she will understand the noises that happen outside the walls of our room are not for giggles and she will grow up to think that the way our father treats our mother is love. Our father does not love our mom, he loves her submissiveness, silence, he loves that as long as Tris and I are “okay” with a roof over our heads, our mom will not tell a soul. 

“Ari, your breakfast is still on the table,” my mother said in a comforting voice.  

I knew that was her way of letting me know our father was done letting his anger out and we could come back downstairs. “Come on Tris, let's finish some breakfast so we can play in the snow!” She quickly jumped out of bed and began to race her little legs down the stairs to the kitchen. 

The smell of blueberry waffles no longer filled the kitchen, and I could see my dad across the hall, passed out at his desk, the bottle of liquor halfway gone. 

Staring at that bottle, I realized how endless and unsafe the love our mother had for us was, that with every sip our father consumed he became an uncontrollable monster that my mother was willingly the bait for. Tris would be their last child, she has too many years ahead of herself to be trapped in this house and I cannot protect her forever. She will start to understand the yelling and banging beyond our room, and question why mom wears scarves and turtlenecks even when it is hot outside. And when our mom becomes too weak to be beaten, who will he prey on next? I will always protect her. In that way I am like our mother, caring, selfless, a protector. But I never wanted to be submissive, scared of someone who is supposed to love me. As long as my father is alive, he holds power over our mom. She stays submissive to protect us but if he hurts her too much or she takes a beating too hard and she's gone, then what will Tris and I have? 

“Ariyah, no! Ariyah, what have you done?” my mother screamed as Tris was quietly standing next to her. I thought my mom heard all the thoughts going on in my head. All I could see next to me was my father passed out at his desk, blood dripping from his head and a broken glass whiskey bottle in my hand. 

I am not my mother’s daughter.