Through (dis)Honest Eyes

Mother Martha

*

Honor thy mother.

Little girls worship their mothers, but teenage girls rage. I saw it early—my sisters, Jean and Louisa, transformed from sweet, adoring daughters into fierce, rebellious forces almost overnight. Their claws came out, clashing with my mother in our narrow foyer, often in the dead of night.

Screams pierced the air, accusations and hurt flooding our cramped home. Bitter fury replaced the warmth my sisters once sought from her. After that, everything changed.

I stayed quiet, slipping into corners during those battles, determined to be different. I swore I wouldn’t become like them.

I decided I would be perfect.

I wielded preeminence like a weapon in a home where love always came with strings.

When I couldn’t be perfect, I pretended I was.

I learned early on that no one in our family gave affection freely—I had to earn it.

My mother offered approval in sharp, fleeting bursts, always unpredictable.

My father barely paid attention. He drifted through our lives like a ghost—there in body, absent in every other way, more shadow than man.

Matt, my brother, was my refuge. Four years older and wiser, he shielded me when the house became unbearable.

When the shouting grew too intense, he invited me into his room.

We’d talk about anything—everything. He saw through the manipulation and control and offered me a glimpse of something better.

“One day, Bree, we’ll get out of here,” he always said. “We’ll live better lives.” I believed him. His words gave me hope.

We had a ritual—hours spent side by side in front of a glowing screen, navigating digital worlds where rules made sense and victory felt within reach.

During those games, Matt always asked for stories.

“Tell me what happens next,” he’d say when I slipped into one of my daydreams. I spun tales of escape—New York, maybe farther.

He listened intently. In those moments, I felt seen.

Then Matt left.

I etched the day into memory as I sat on the couch, watching him pack his things into Dad’s truck.

He was heading to a tiny attic apartment near his university—nothing fancy, but it was his.

He had even landed a job with Dad’s on-and-off employer, learning to survey land.

He carved out his escape, box by box, and didn’t look back.

“It’s only temporary,” he told me the night before, the glow of the video game, Kingdom Hearts, on the dim tube television lighting our faces. “Once I get settled, I’ll give you somewhere to avoid this chaos.”

I wanted to believe him. I told myself this time would be different.

“Tell me what happens next,” he asked one last time.

I spun another story—one of escape and a fresh start. Honestly, I needed to believe it.

I stood in the doorway the next day as he loaded the last box. His absence hit me before he even left.

“I’ll come back for you,” he promised. I nodded, though deep down, I knew better.

He hugged me quickly and promised to call. I watched the truck disappear. He never looked back.

While my sisters fought for my mother’s approval or rebelled against her control, my father stayed in his corner.

He read the newspaper or stared blankly at the TV, pretending the chaos didn’t exist. His silence protected him.

He could’ve said something to stop the battles, but he didn’t.

He let my mother’s words land like stones.

Sometimes, I caught him watching. But he always looked away before our eyes met.

Acknowledging me would’ve meant conceding the mess.

His indifference hurt more than anger ever could.

I realized rebellion wouldn’t work. My father wouldn’t defend me. My mother would turn her cold, disapproving gaze on me. Matt had left. I was alone in the wreckage.

So, I became the quiet one, the obedient daughter, the “please” and “thank you” girl in a house filled with fury. I stayed focused on school, out of trouble, and found sanctuary in friends’ homes where fathers asked about my day and mothers hugged me without expecting anything in return.

But that was my first lie to myself—believing perfection would keep me safe.

Our house, already crowded, was suffocating under the tension. Arguments echoed in the walls long after doors slammed. Every step felt like walking a tightrope. One wrong move could set everything off. I learned to avoid my mother’s glare, my father’s silence, and the absence Matt left behind.

That silence lingered. The damp walls smelled like mildew.

Dinner always tasted slightly burnt. The air held the scent of my mother’s perfume and stale cigarette smoke.

My father sat having a beer, nodding occasionally at the TV.

I wondered, did he see me? Did he notice Matt was gone?

Or was it just another absence to ignore?

Even as Martha raged, he stayed mum. He didn’t condone my mother’s cruelty, but her never stopped it either.

My mother’s love came with conditions. I had to do what she wanted—be quiet but friendly; speak slowly but not sound dull. Stop kissing girls. Be palatable to everyone else. Then, maybe, I’d have her love.

Even then, if it existed at all, my father’s love came only in quiet, distant glances.

Jason had no love to give outside of adventures. Jean could only show love through her stories, but her pain would overshadow it. Louisa showed love through service but had no time to give. Edward existed.

Matt, however, had been my only ally, and now he was gone.

As I entered adolescence, I saw my father’s silence for what it was: a quiet betrayal. He didn’t fight. He didn’t care. My mother’s anger, at least, gave me something to resist. But my father? There was nothing to push against. Emotionally, he was blank and gave me nothing to hold onto.

When the opportunity to go to England for the summer arose, my mother dangled it like bait. “Do well in school, and you can go,” she promised. I worked hard and was determined to earn it. But when I handed her the deposit form, she barely glanced at it.

“If I pay for this trip, you’ll have to transfer to public school next year,” she said with a sigh.

I turned to my father, hoping—desperately—for something.

He stayed silent, eyes fixed on the TV.

I never went on the trip. Six months later, I transferred to a public school anyway. My mother stopped paying the tuition, and my father never apologized.

His passivity settled in me like a stone, just as damaging as my mother’s manipulation: different roles, same result.

As I grew older, the gap between my parents and me widened.

“When you grow up,” my mother would say, flashing her tight smile as we walked through another store we couldn’t afford, “you’ll take care of me.”

My father nodded in silent agreement.

The weight of their expectations nearly crushed me, but I smiled and said, “I’ll try.”

“Well, we’re all depending on you,” she’d say with finality.

They only cared about what I could do for them.

“Don’t you want me to go to college?” I asked once, my voice trembling with hope.

My mother’s smile didn’t waver. “I didn’t say that, Bree. Just focus on your responsibilities.”

“Like school?” I asked, grasping for encouragement.

“Bree, stop arguing. You know what I mean. Just don’t get pregnant by some loser. Always remember—our family comes first.”

Family. Always family.

After that, I stopped asking for clarification. I knew the answer.

I started dreaming of escape—walking through New York City, sipping coffee in Central Park, hailing cabs like I belonged.

The peeling posters and old futon in my room vanished.

I lived in a sleek apartment. I wasn’t Brianna Soot, the invisible girl my father ignored. I wasn’t the girl Matt left behind.

I was someone else.

A journalist by day. A novelist by night.

That night, I made a decision. I wouldn’t follow my mother’s script. I couldn’t wait for my father to see me or for Matt to return. I would leave.

Escape became my obsession. I studied how to live independently and learned to obtain a driver’s license, open a bank account, and secure employment.

My mother tried to block these paths.

So, I took control.

I entered writing contests and won some. At first, my mother’s praise felt rewarding, but it was cut with criticism.

I no longer needed their approval. I needed freedom.

I cleaned neighbors’ houses, HTML-designed custom MySpace pages, mowed lawns—anything to save money. But it was never enough.

I watched Louisa leave again, another hopeful man in tow. She drove away, smiling like she’d finally escaped. My father barely looked up.

She came back, of course; none of those guys were worth her time.

One night, alone in our shared room surrounded by books, posters, and hidden cigarettes, I laid in bed, next to Louisa snoring softly. Staring at the ceiling, I faced the truth: I couldn’t do this alone.

No matter how fiercely I fought or how much I wanted it—

I still needed love.