11
It was the landlady. She lived upstairs. Her
eyes widened when she saw them. “Who are
you? Where’s Ashley?”
The walls were thin. The sound of their
argument had carried. She valued quiet, and I
had always been quiet when I lived there.
After her question, all four of them fell silent,
as if someone had choked them. Finally, Mom
spoke. “We’re Ashley’s family. She passed
away. We’re here to pack her things.”
The landlady was shocked, then started to
cry. As she went upstairs, she sobbed, “Such
く
a nice girl. So unlucky…”
I wasn’t lucky. Not from the moment I was
born.
The interruption ended their argument. They
went back to packing my things in silence.
There wasn’t much to pack. I’d come into the
world with nothing, and I’d left with nothing.
The only thing I cared about didn’t care about
- me.
Mom sat on the sofa, reading through my
therapy notes. It was dusk again, the blood- red sunset streaming through the window. A
car horn blared outside. Mom stopped, her
expression distant. Was she remembering
ILO
L
that evening at the crosswalk? How she’d
reached for my hand, how I’d pulled away,
how quickly she’d withdrawn her affection.
She was always so stingy with her love for
- me.
“Was it my fault?” Mom’s voice was hoarse
as she closed the therapy notes. “She was
never close to me. I have three children. Of
course I loved the ones who loved me back.”
No, Mom. You were wrong. You had the
cause and effect mixed up. When I first came
home, I sensed your coldness, so I kept
testing you. When Chloe offered to help with
chores, you’d smile and tell her she was too
young, to go and rest. When I offered to wash
<
the dishes, you’d readily agree, then scold me
for being clumsy if I broke a single dish.
“Mom,” I whispered, my voice cracking with
unshed tears. “Mom, you brought me into this
world. I didn’t know anything. I loved you the
way you loved me.”
My love was a mirror reflecting yours. All the
coldness, the sarcasm, the volatile outbursts
– I learned them all from you.
You meant something different to me than
anyone else in this family. I was inside you,
connected to you for ten months. That
connection lingered even after I was born, a thread pulling me back to you, even when I
<
was miles away. Even in death, that invisible
force dragged my spirit back to your side.
I’d tried to convince myself that the world
was vast, life was expansive, that I didn’t have
to be trapped by my family. I traveled, I saw
mountains and oceans, I put away the sharp
objects, I took my medication every day. But
then I’d see a little girl holding a red balloon,
walking hand–in–hand with her mother, and
I’d freeze, staring, remembering how my
classmate had bragged about failing a test,
about running away, about her mother finding
her and crying, promising never to scold her
again. I didn’t know then that only loved
children could do that.
<
So, the next time Mom locked me in the
storage room, I ran away. I sat on the old
swing set in the courtyard, staring at the
sparse stars, rehearsing what I’d say if Mom
came looking for me. She’s still my mom, I
thought, I shouldn’t make her too sad. I’d tell
her to be nicer to me.
But I waited until midnight. Clouds covered
the moon, rain started to fall, the stars
disappeared. I went back home, soaked to the
bone. The house was silent. Everyone was
asleep. No one had come looking for me.
The next morning, I left for school. Mom,
eating breakfast at the table, said casually,
“Decided to come back? I thought you were
<
going to live outside forever. One less mouth
to feed.”
Only loved children could act spoiled, could
throw tantrums. I never escaped that
childhood trap. After I turned five, I stumbled
through the world, lost and alone. I’d asked
Mom so many times why. I was begging her
to love me. Not even to love me the most, just
to love me a little, like she loved Chloe and
Zach. She was capable of love. Why couldn’t
she give it to me?
There was never an answer.
Night fell. Mom turned another page in my
therapy notes. The phone rang. It was the
<
police again. “We apologize, Mrs. Ashworth.
We’ve been quite busy since the arrest. We
have a few more of your daughter’s
belongings. Please come and collect them
when you have time.”
Mom and Zach left. The city lights twinkled,
traffic flowed. After walking for a while, Mom
suddenly asked Zach, “Do you think Ashley
hated me?”
“N–no,” Zach stammered, clearly startled.
“You gave birth to her… Like the killer said,
she called out for you before she died. She
wouldn’t… blame you.” He fell silent. Zach
was twenty–one, not a child anymore. He’d
never liked me, though his dislike wasn’t as
<
blatant or proactive as Chloe’s. He mostly
stood silently behind Chloe, supporting her.
But children simply mimic the adults who hold
the power. If Mom and Dad hadn’t allowed it,
Chloe and Zach wouldn’t have treated me so
cruelly.
I followed them back to the police station.
The officer handed Mom a bag. Inside, a set
of keys, a pack of tissues, a cracked phone,
and a bloodstained, twisted gold bracelet.
Tucked inside was a crumpled card: “Happy
birthday, Mom.”
Under the moonlight, Mom stared at the
bracelet, at the blood–smeared words on the
card. Finally, tears welled up in the same eyes
く
that had always looked at me with coldness
or rage. Seven days after my death, on my
twenty–fifth birthday, my mother finally shed
a tear for me.
