Because even though she’s fucked up over and over, especially since my grandparents died, she’s still my mom.
Over the years, she put her shit aside on days she knew were important to me because she wanted to be there. Sure, I had to pay our bills and keep a roof over our heads, but I knew deep down she cared. She tried to be a better mom.
But now I can make excuses for her.
The house is messier than it was last night. Like she brought people into our home and let them have their way with it. And even though she’s the only person who remains, the evidence of those people still lingers.
She’s on the couch with god knows what coursing through her veins. It’s not uncommon for me to wake up or come home to her blacked out on our couch. Like her body couldn’t even carry her into her own bedroom because she put too much shit in it.
“Mami,” I shake her, trying to wake her up, “despiértate.”
She doesn’t budge.
“Mami!” I shake her again. “Fuck.” I tap her face to try and get a response. Honestly, she probably just blacked out, and her body hasn’t worked through the high yet.
But not only am I angry over what happened yesterday, I’m furious over the fact that all the proof I need for what she did is her blacked out in front of me.
I walk into the kitchen, grab a mixing bowl, and fill it with cold water. Usually, I just let it wear off. I’m used to this. I’m used to sitting in my room while I wait for her to come to. She’s breathing. Her chest rises and falls steadily, so I know she’s okay.
I carry the bowl over to her, and with no hesitation, I drench her.
This wakes her right up.
“Fueputa.” She quickly sits up and rubs her temples. “Avalon,¿cual es tu problema, niña?”
“Bueno, estas despierto.” I drop the bowl, and it echoes across the room.
“¿Y esto?”
“You stole from me.” It’s all I say, and she closes her eyes like it’ll get rid of me. Or, like she didn’t think I’d figure it out.
“¿Qué qué?”
“I’m not stupid, Mom.” I cross my arms. We rarely talk, but when we do, it’s usually a combination of the minimal Spanish myAbuelataught me before she passed and English. But it lets her know I'm serious when I don’t even attempt to use my Spanish.
She knows she fucked up.
But I don’t know if sheeven cares.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands up, wobbling a bit, before regaining her composure. She walks into the kitchen, sticking her head under the faucet to get water.
“I’m pretty sure I’d remember sending you thousands of dollars.”
“I don’t have your money.”
“Spent all of it already?” My brow creases. “Are you fucking stupid,Mami? We need that money. Unless your disability checks are gonna actually start going to bills.”
“I don’t need you lecturing me, Avalon.” She rests against the counter. “If you haven’t realized, I’m the parent thatstayed.”
“Are we seriously gonna turn back to that?” I laugh. “You can’t be the parent that stayed if you don’t fucking take care of your kid.”
“I’ve taken great care of you. I got you this far. You wouldn’t be here without me.”
“I am who I am because ofmyself. Sure, you put your shit aside to celebrate my accomplishments, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t seven years old, getting myself dressed and fed and walking to schoolby myself. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t twelve, sitting in the shower with you after you had a littletoo muchfun, and I was trying to make sure you were still alive. It doesn't mean—”
“So, I was a bad mom.” She throws her hands in the air, dramatically hitting her thighs on the way down. “And your father was this amazing man who cared for you and did fun things with you while I was making money for this family.”
“This isn’t about him!” I cry. “It’s about you. It’s about the amazing woman I looked up to as a kid. The woman who made a name for herself. The woman who was one of the best firefighters the world had ever seenand—”