29 Cassius
Day Five
Mom doesn’t ask why I’m home when I walk through the front door in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.
She takes one look at my face, wipes her hands on the dish towel over her shoulder, and says, “Kitchen.”
That’s it, that one singular word that’s somehow still worse than a lecture.
I shut the door behind me and kick my shoes off by the mat, lining them up beside hers because if I don’t, she’ll say something about me bringing half the yard into her clean house.
The house smells like onions, garlic, and the same cleaner she’s used since I was a kid.
It should make me feel better. Usually it does.
Today it just makes my chest feel tight.
Zae should be here.
The thought comes hard and fast before I can stop it.
She should be walking in behind me, already talking too much, asking Mom what she needs help with, pretending she didn’t come with some cream for Mom’s hands or some tea she found because she researched inflammation at two in the morning like a lunatic with a medical blog addiction.
My hand tightens around my keys. Mom looks back from the kitchen doorway like she knows what’s running through my brain. “Cass.”
“Coming,” I mutter.
She’s already at the stove when I walk in, stirring something in a pot like she didn’t just summon me to my own execution. There’s a stack of folded towels on one chair, mail spread across the table, and a half-finished grocery list sitting beside her reading glasses.
Normal stuff.
Normal house.
Bad week.
“Sit,” she tells me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t remember asking that.”
I pull out a chair and sit because arguing with my mother when she has that tone is a waste of breath. She puts a bowl in front of me anyway like I’m twelve and came home from school with a busted lip. Then she sets a spoon beside it, grabs the folded towels off the chair across from me, and sits.
She doesn’t go back to the stove.
Great.
Just great.
I pick up the spoon because doing something with my hands is better than sitting there waiting for her to start.
She watches me take one bite before she speaks. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you slept?”
“Some.”
“That means no.”
“It means some.”
“It means no,” she says again, and I don’t bother arguing because she’s right and we both know it.
I eat another bite. It’s good. It’s always good. Mom could make soup out of a tire and a handful of leaves and somehow it would still taste delicious.
She folds her hands on the table. “Have you talked to Zae?”
The spoon stops halfway to my mouth.
“No.”
“Has she talked to you?”
“No.”
Mom’s face tightens enough that I know she hates my answer.
“She said she was giving me space,” I explain.
“That what you wanted?”
I set the spoon down. “I thought it was.”
“And now?”
I look at the bowl because looking at her is harder. “Now I keep checking my phone like a dumbass.”
Mom huffs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, at least you’re self-aware.”
“Trying to be.”
“That’s not enough by itself.”
“I know.”
She leans back in her chair, eyes moving over my face. I hate when she does that. Mom has always had this way of looking at me like she can see the exact thing I’m trying to hide.
“I know why you did it,” she starts. “I don’t agree with how you did it, but I know why.”
“Zae tell you?”
“She told me enough.”
Of course she did. Or maybe Mom didn’t need much. Zae and Mom have their own language at this point. Half of it is baked goods and worrying about me behind my back.
“I didn’t want to hurt her,” I say.
Mom’s eyes soften, and that somehow makes it worse. “I know, baby.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I needed to keep her safe.”
Mom says nothing for a moment. She only looks at me, and the kitchen feels smaller than it did when I walked in.
Then she says, “You’re scared you’re him.”
The spoon slips against the bowl as I look up.
“Don’t start, mama.”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I know.” She pushes the bowl closer when I stop eating, because even while she’s gutting me, she’s still my mother. “But I should have talked about him sooner.”
The room goes quiet after that. The pot bubbles on the stove. The old clock in the living room ticks too loud. I keep my hands under the table and curl them into fists so she can’t see them shake.
Mom looks down at her own hands. Her knuckles are swollen today.
Mom rubs her thumb over one knuckle. “I loved your father. I know that’s not what people want to hear,” she continues.
“They want things simple. They want him to have always been cruel and me to have always known better. But that isn’t how it happened.
He could be funny. Charming, when he wanted to be.
He remembered birthdays. He brought me flowers sometimes. There were good days.”
I don’t say anything, because I remember the good days too.
That’s the worst part.
“And then there were the bad days,” she admits, quieter now.
“The days he walked through the door in a mood. The days I kept you quiet because your laugh was too loud or your game was too noisy or your shoes were in the wrong place. The days he said cruel things and then acted like we were too sensitive for remembering them.”
My stomach twists at the reminder.
“He never thought he had a problem, Cass. There was always a reason, some excuse. Work. Money. Traffic. Me. You. There was always something to blame, and it was never himself.”
I stare at the table, trying not to relive it all.
“You are not that man.”
A humorless breath leaves me. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you know what you want to believe.”
Her eyes flash, and I shut up before she can tell me to.
“Don’t put your fear in my mouth,” she says, voice firm enough to make my chest pull tight. “Your father scared people and then blamed them for being scared. You scare yourself and go to therapy because of it.”
“That doesn’t make me safe.”
“No. But it makes you honest.”
I look away.
“Dan never once sat at this table and told me he was afraid of what he could become. He never worried about hurting me until there were consequences. He never watched himself close enough to catch the signs before they turned into more. He never did the work. You do.”
“I almost hit her.”
“I know.”
“She had to duck out of the way.”
“I know.”
“If she hadn’t—”
“I know,” she says, and her voice breaks, stopping me immediately. “I am not saying that doesn’t matter. It does. It should. But almost is not the same as did, and it’s not the same as being your father.”
My hands tighten under the table as Mom takes a breath, and when she speaks again, she sounds tired.
“I stayed too long.”
“Mom.”
“No. Let me say it.”
I close my mouth and let her continue.
“I stayed too long,” she repeats. “I thought if I could keep things calm, it would be enough. If I could smooth things over. Keep dinner warm. Keep you quiet. Keep myself from saying the wrong thing. I thought I was protecting us by managing him, but all I did was teach you that love meant tiptoeing around someone else’s anger. ”
My chest hurts with every admission.
“I should have left sooner. You were a child, and you had to learn how to manage your father’s mood before you learned how to understand your own. That is on him. But I was your mama, and I carry my part too.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Her eyes lift to mine carefully.
“I did when I was younger,” I admit. “Sometimes. But not now that I understand it all.”
Her mouth trembles, and I look down fast because if she cries, I’m done.
“He was the problem.”
“He was part of the problem,” she corrects. “But I stayed with him too long.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. Maybe because it’s true. Or maybe because I hate that it’s true.
She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. Her fingers are warm, her grip stronger than it looks.
“You are not your father,” she assures me again. “But you can’t get healthy by running from every feeling that reminds you of him. That’s still letting him decide who you are.”
I stare at our hands.
“She deserves better than someone she has to handle.”
“Yes,” Mom says. “She does.”
The answer hurts even though I know it’s right.
“Zae should never have to handle you. She should never have to make herself smaller so your anger has more room. She should never have to stay because she’s scared of what leaving might do to you. If you ever put her there, I’ll come get that girl myself.”
I look at her then. She means it.
Good. She should.
“But that isn’t the same as letting someone love you while you do the work,” she says. “It isn’t the same as letting her have a choice.”
Dr. Malik’s question comes back before I can stop it.
Whose answer are you using?
“She’ll stay,” I say. “Even if it’s hard.”
“Maybe she will.”
“That’s the problem.”
“No, baby. The problem is you think her staying means she doesn’t understand.” Mom squeezes my hand. “That girl has had to understand things no girl her age should have to. Don’t turn her love into ignorance just because you’re scared.”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Then tell her that.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It’s a start.”
“I hurt her.”
“I know.”
“I left.”
“I know that too.”
“She reached for me, and I stepped back.” The words come out before I can stop them, rough and quiet. “She was crying, and I stepped back.”
Mom’s fingers tighten around mine.
“I keep seeing it,” I admit. “Her hand just stopped there. Like I taught her not to touch me.”
Mom closes her eyes for a moment. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help the lump in my throat.
“I thought leaving was the least selfish thing I could do for her.”
“And now?”
I look down at the bowl I barely touched.
“Now I don’t know if I left for her or because I was scared to stay.”
Mom lets me sit with that for a moment. She doesn’t rush in to fix it, which is probably good because there isn’t much to fix yet.
Finally, she stands and goes to the stove. “Eat.”
I almost laugh. “That’s your advice?”
“That’s my advice for the next five minutes. After that, you can go back to making your life complicated.”