The smell of sazon and beef is wafting around the house as I make tacos and rice with my mom. She disappears into her room for a second and comes out in a jacket and hands me a bathrobe. I’m not sure what’s about to happen but she insists that I put it on and talk to her outside.
“Mom its dark and cold… can’t we talk in your room?”
“No, I don’t want your sister to hear.”
We walk outside and sit on the new but dusty outdoor seats. They are unclean because my mom hasn’t cleaned them. I feel guilty because I’m not there to use or maintain the things in my childhood home. Either way, I’m looking and thinking of an escape plan, I’m in some form of survival mode. Whether that means surviving the hour or the weekend here. She begins asking why I don’t want to go to her house. I know I’ll probably waste my time, but I really do try to get her to understand. That’s all I want from her is to be heard and understood. In the end, though each breath I take is a waste of cold crisp winter air. I feel nauseous sick, going to lose it type of sick. I can feel the tears build up in my eyes. The tears that are a waste. A waste of my time and emotion. I just know I wouldn’t have these tears if I was at my dad’s. I just know I wouldn’t have these tears if my mom wasn’t like this. I try my best to sugar coat my reasons and not make her mad.
“I struggle coming here because I know you need to work on yourself. I wish you were in therapy. I’m in therapy and it has helped me grow a lot.”
She claims that she is in therapy, but she won’t explain further.
“When, where, and who is your counselor? I query.
 She has no answers that calm or reassure me. I know, I know, it sounds like not that serious to want to stop going. But seriously I wouldn’t be in this situation every week if it wasn’t. I know I need a mentally stable mom, but I still accept her and just go. I’m sitting there in the dark basically trying to black out whatever she’s saying. I wish I could only hear as much as I could see, and I really can’t see much. I want to scream and cry for her to be better. Better for her, better for me, and better for my sister. Deep down I know she will never change. And I feel like deep down she knows she needs to. I just don’t know what it will take to get her to that point. She might lose us completely before even getting a grasp to get us back. Each time I’m there it’s as if she is slowly cutting the rope that is our relationship. Every little thing that hurts me or my sister just snips apart each strand connecting the rope. I’m hanging on for dear life and so is she. We don’t know exactly when it will break but when it does, we will surely know. When it breaks, it leaves us both hurt and bruised. Maybe even broken up.
This all hurts too much to think and talk about with her. I almost wish we could completely ignore our problems. Just be a normal mom and daughter making dinner. I’ve lost track of what she’s talking about. Something about “I’ll understand when I’m older.” The google alarm starts going off inside. It’s for the rice we are cooking. I’m saved by the bell.