Mom’s notebook
My mom has this notebook. It’s like a running tally of every penny she spent raising me. After another blowout argument, she told me I
needed to pay her back. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay you back. Every last cent.” And the life you
gave me, too..
- 1.
The hospital called, reminding me about my
fifth chemo appointment tomorrow. I glanced at
my savings account: $72,326.18. I told them I
wouldn’t be coming. The nurse sounded
confused. “With treatment, you could live
another year, maybe even longer. If you stop
now, if you let the cancer spread…you might
have less than three months.”
I knew that. But I couldn’t touch that money. It
was everything I’d saved from four years of
college and four years of working. It wasn’t a
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small amount, but I still had a debt to pay. To
my parents.
My mom had it all figured out. “Raising you
cost us at least $72,000,” she’d said. “Until your
pay us back, you’ll owe us, even in death.” They
had three thick notebooks, meticulously
documenting every expense since I was born. A
fifty–cent popsicle, a dollar pack of hair ties,
two dollars for children’s Tylenol, seven dollars
for a lunchbox, tuition, allowance… every single
thing they’d ever given me was recorded. The
grand total: $9,634.24.
“Fifty cents back then isn’t the same as fifty
cents now,” Mom explained. “Inflation alone is five times that, not to mention all the expenses we didn’t even track. Food, clothes, shelter…
none of that’s free.”
“And the time we spent, the sweat we poured
into raising you…that can’t be measured in
dollars and cents.” Eventually, after some
namalinated nalaulations, cha oriund
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complicated calculations, she arrived at a nice
round number: $72,000. “Before you throw a
tantrum, before you ask for anything, remember
what you owe us. Ask yourself if you even have
the right.”
So, I wasn’t interested in chasing a few extral
months. I was going home to pay them back.
Every. Single. Cent.
- 2.
I sold everything in my apartment for next to
nothing, quit my job, and on a gray Tuesday
morning, slipped away from the city I’d spent
eight years building a life in.
By 3 PM, I was back in my parents‘ house. Mom
had blocked my number and my social media,
so I texted Dad to tell him I was home..
When Mom got back, a neighbor, Mrs.
Henderson, gave me a long look. “You Carol’s
daughter Ashley?”
48
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I gave a tight smile and nodded. Mrs.
Henderson’s expression immediately soured, and she took a step back. “All that education
and you can’t even respect your own parents. What a waste.”
“Ungrateful child. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Clearly, she’d heard my story. I wasn’t even bothered. I just smiled sweetly. “Careful what you wish for, Mrs. Henderson. Mean words can come back to bite you.”
“The nerve!” she huffed, hurrying away. “College graduate, my foot! No class at all!”
The hallway was freezing. No central heating in our old house. The cold seeped into my bones, my toes going numb, my legs trembling
uncontrollably. This winter seemed colder than any other.
I huddled in my two down jackets, waiting. Eight hours crept by, the streetlights flickering on,
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then off again. Finally, I saw my cousin, Brittany,
post a picture on Instagram. It was Mom,
snuggled under a blanket on Brittany’s couch,
binge–watching TV. The smile on her face
practically radiated through the screen.
The caption: “Perks of having a cool aunt? She
runs away from home and comes to hang with
me when she’s upset. Hope someone isn’t
jealous.”
Oh, so she went to Brittany’s. The same
Brittany who’d held it over my head my entire
life. My “cousin” in the loosest sense of the
word.
I scanned the flyers stuck to the wall, found a
locksmith’s number, and made the call.
- 3.
Brittany’s room was as cozy as ever, while mine
had been converted into a game room. My
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closet and bookshelf were gone. The fold–out
bed I’d slept on for years was propped up in the
corner, the mattress bare, stained with
unidentifiable brown splotches.
A cardboard box tucked away held all my
remaining possessions: graduation photos, my
diploma, a few certificates of achievement.
I gathered every photograph of myself in the
house and burned them. There weren’t many,
seventeen in total, including four class pictures.
Dad called from his night shift at the
warehouse, asking how things were going with
Mom. I lied and said I was still outside. He was
silent for a moment. “Why don’t you find a
motel? Your mom’s helping out a friend. She’ll
probably be back in a few days.”
“Okay.”
The next day, Brittany posted a video. She was
aatina lunah in har
anfotarian
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eating lunch in her company cafeteria. Mom
was there, too, along with Dad in his work uniform, sweetly fetching drinks for them. Mom was teasing Brittany, picking shrimp off her own plate and giving them to her. Dad beamed at them both, his kind face glowing with happiness.
I had a morbid thought: I wished they’d waited a few more days. Waited until I died in the house. It would be quite the homecoming, to find their daughter’s decaying corpse.
But it wasn’t to be. Three days later, they came home.
- 4.
“Who told you to break into the house? You’re paying for that lock!” Mom shrieked the second she stepped inside, still in her heels. “He said
the lock wasn’t damaged,” I retorted. “You think he’d lie?” “So much education, and you’re still
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stupid as a rock!”
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Then she noticed my makeup. “And that’s just ugly,” she added.
“Breaking and entering is a crime, you know,” she continued. I stared at her, dumbfounded. So, this was someone else’s house to me now? Dad nudged Mom. “Easy, Carol.” She rolled her eyes and reluctantly dropped her purse. Then
her eyes widened. “My gold!” she gasped,
tob
rushing to her room. “I need to check if
anything’s missing!”
Moments later, she stormed out, furious. “Give
me your pockets! Empty them now!” “Why do
you think I took it?” I asked.
”
“Don’t play dumb!” She grabbed her keys and
swung at me. I didn’t dodge fast enough. The
sharp edge of the nail file grazed my cheek,
drawing blood.
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“You stole from your aunt, you stole at school,
you steal here at home! You’ve been a thief
your whole life! And you dare deny it?!”
“You’re a disgrace!”
I’d lived with my aunt and uncle for a few years. That’s when the rumors about my sticky fingers started. After they passed away, I moved back in with my parents, but the accusations. followed me.
The most humiliating incident was in middle school, during a parent–teacher conference. A parent’s wallet went missing. The teacher found it…in my desk.
“Stealing from your aunt wasn’t enough? You had to bring it to school?!” Mom slapped me, right in front of everyone. I stared at the
judging eyes, tears welling, unable to speak. I became the school pariah. For the rest of the year, I was alone.
But I hadn’t done anything.
