In this scene, I am trying to build up tension and portray emotional manipulation, abusive dynamics. I am really working on trying to show the emotions through the description rather than just describe the emotions. I would love some feedback into how this piece makes you feel as a reader, what subtext do you pick up on? I want to see if my points are landing for someone who doesn't know the context or the details in my head.

There is a line in the last paragraph 'It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop.' that I am curious to see if a reader can pick up on the importance of...

Also, I am somehow struggling with using the past tense when I slip more into the character's inner monologue. Especially when she is thinking 'I could' or 'I should' - are there any weird tenses here?

The narrator is 13, the man is her stepdad. I hope that's all the context you need and the story does the rest! I appreciate any and all feedback!

Trigger warning: emotional abuse, swearing.

------------------------------------------

Strawberries

Juice dripped down the side of my arm. I caught it with my tongue before it could drip onto the carpet. I sat on the floor, legs sprawled, back leaning against the arm of the sofa. It felt so good to be off my feet. I deliberated whether I was impressed or disgusted with myself for eating the whole punnet - strawberries in June are hard to put down when you start. They had been sitting in the fridge for almost a week now. They would have turned soon enough if I hadn’t finished them. 

I heard heavy footprints coming down the corridor. I glanced up at the door and let out a breath seeing it was closed. My hands were too sticky to touch the remote, so TV was out. The sun was warm on my face, streaming through the glass doors out to the garden. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, delaying getting up and doing the next 5 things on my list. I needed to shower, I had an essay due the next day which was only half written, I wondered if anyone was using the computer - I could have gone to see who was on MSN instead. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but someone needed to start dinner before Josh ate all the cereal.

A clang in the kitchen jolted me out of the trance. 

‘Who ate my strawberries?’ He was bellowing, the bass in his voice vibrated through the wall. 

I heard a door slam upstairs and then nothing. I looked down at the bowl of green stems in front of me, back up at the door, out to the garden. I held my breath and listened. I decided to take the bowl up to the bathroom with me. I could clean up and then take the stems out to the grassy patch at the end of the road later. 

I peeked out through a crack in the door, nothing. I slowly opened it and slipped through. A few more steps to the bottom stair and I got away with it, but I caught his eye as I looked over my right shoulder. 

‘Where are you going with that bowl? You know there is no food upstairs’, his voice was steady, calm. 

‘Oh, I was just… I was going to clean it up’, I turned on my heel and headed back towards the kitchen, I avoided meeting his eyes as we passed each other. 

‘Did you eat my strawberries?’

‘I guess, well, I didn’t realise they were your strawberries…’, the silence lingered. I waited to see where he would take this next. We stood in unbearable stillness. I relented, ‘I just ate a few’.

‘You know I have been on my diet, that’s all I can eat right now. What am I supposed to eat now that you scoffed them all?’

He edged closer to me as he spoke. I cleared up the evidence as if erasing any trace of eaten strawberries could unwind this conversation. 

‘I thought they were just for everyone and no one else was eating them. It’s just strawberries, there are still grapes, and there is bacon. You ate that last time you did the diet, right? It’s the Atkins one?’ I moved towards the fridge, ready to start pulling out ingredients. ‘You could have, erm, let’s see, maybe I could mak-’

He reached his hand over my head and pushed the fridge closed slowly. ‘You know I can’t eat any of that on my diet. Your Mum bought those strawberries for me to eat specifically.’

‘I didn’t even know you were on a diet. It’s just food in the fridge. They were about to go off anyway… we can get some more strawberries.' My voice jumped up an octave and I took a step back to face him properly. 

‘You touch things that aren't yours. That is your problem. Are you going to go and buy more? Oh no… you expect me to go, on a Sunday, when it is busy, restock the fridge, make sure you have enough strawberries to scoff while you sit around and do what?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on, calm, steady, slow. He always spoke slowly so you were never sure when it was your turn to chime back in. ‘You kids just sit around, make a mess and expect me to do everything. And you ate them all? You didn’t think to share… so selfish. Do you not think about your family? You don’t care about my diet or what I am going to eat, just yourself and whatever suits you…’

‘What’s the big fucking deal? They’re just strawberries!’ I spat out the words. My face flushed. I fixed my eyes on the floor and let my spine curve over and my shoulders drop. I clicked my fingers, a joint at a time, getting faster as I moved from one hand to the next.

He smiled. 

‘You don’t dare fucking speaking to me like that. You selfish little brat.’ 

‘We can get more strawberries. I am doing the shop tomorrow, I will just buy more’, I blurted out before he could carry on. I felt a knot at the back of my throat, white noise flooded my ears. 

I barely registered his reply, despite the volume, ‘What fucking good does that do me today?’

We were both yelling. A flurry of words completely engulfed me. I couldn’t make sense of them any more. ‘Lazy’ barrelled through me, ‘Brat’ stung hard, ‘Selfish’ whacked into me with such force that I just stopped. I stopped yelling - he didn’t. My neck was hot, I could feel tears about to escape my eyes. I ran past him to the front door, grabbed my shoes, my bag off the hook, I was finally outside.   

I walked quickly, rummaging around in my bag, hoping I still had that £10 my dance teacher gave me yesterday for helping out with the younger classes. I went straight to the shop and I bought three punnets of strawberries. I was surprised to see they were still on sale. It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop. When I got home, every door was closed. I snuck them into the fridge and retreated to my room. An hour later, I heard my Mum’s shrill shrieks, followed by his low roar, the theme tune for this house. The strawberries sat in the fridge for 3 weeks before I eventually threw them out.

[1355] Crit

In this scene, I am trying to build up tension and portray emotional manipulation, abusive dynamics. I am really working on trying to show the emotions through the description rather than just describe the emotions. I would love some feedback into how this piece makes you feel as a reader, what subtext do you pick up on? I want to see if my points are landing for someone who doesn't know the context or the details in my head.

There is a line in the last paragraph 'It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop.' that I am curious to see if a reader can pick up on the importance of...

The narrator is 13, the man is her stepdad. I hope that's all the context you need and the story does the rest! I appreciate any and all feedback!

Trigger warning: emotional abuse, swearing.

------------------------------------------

Strawberries

Juice dripped down the side of my arm. I caught it with my tongue before it could drip onto the carpet. I sat on the floor, legs sprawled, back leaning against the arm of the sofa. It felt so good to be off my feet. I deliberated whether I was impressed or disgusted with myself for eating the whole punnet - strawberries in June are hard to put down when you start. They had been sitting in the fridge for almost a week now. They would have turned soon enough if I hadn’t finished them. 

I heard heavy footprints coming down the corridor. I glanced up at the door and let out a breath seeing it was closed. My hands were too sticky to touch the remote, so TV was out. The sun was warm on my face, streaming through the glass doors out to the garden. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, delaying getting up and doing the next 5 things on my list. I needed to shower, I had an essay due the next day which was only half written, I wondered if anyone was using the computer - I could have gone to see who was on MSN instead. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but someone needed to start dinner before Josh ate all the cereal.

A clang in the kitchen jolted me out of the trance. 

‘Who ate my strawberries?’ He was bellowing, the bass in his voice vibrated through the wall. 

I heard a door slam upstairs and then nothing. I looked down at the bowl of green stems in front of me, back up at the door, out to the garden. I held my breath and listened. I decided to take the bowl up to the bathroom with me. I could clean up and then take the stems out to the grassy patch at the end of the road later. 

I peeked out through a crack in the door, nothing. I slowly opened it and slipped through. A few more steps to the bottom stair and I got away with it, but I caught his eye as I looked over my right shoulder. 

‘Where are you going with that bowl? You know there is no food upstairs’, his voice was steady, calm. 

‘Oh, I was just… I was going to clean it up’, I turned on my heel and headed back towards the kitchen, I avoided meeting his eyes as we passed each other. 

‘Did you eat my strawberries?’

‘I guess, well, I didn’t realise they were your strawberries…’, the silence lingered. I waited to see where he would take this next. We stood in unbearable stillness. I relented, ‘I just ate a few’.

‘You know I have been on my diet, that’s all I can eat right now. What am I supposed to eat now that you scoffed them all?’

He edged closer to me as he spoke. I cleared up the evidence as if erasing any trace of eaten strawberries could unwind this conversation. 

‘I thought they were just for everyone and no one else was eating them. It’s just strawberries, there are still grapes, and there is bacon. You ate that last time you did the diet, right? It’s the Atkins one?’ I moved towards the fridge, ready to start pulling out ingredients. ‘You could have, erm, let’s see, maybe I could mak-’

He reached his hand over my head and pushed the fridge closed slowly. ‘You know I can’t eat any of that on my diet. Your Mum bought those strawberries for me to eat specifically.’

‘I didn’t even know you were on a diet. It’s just food in the fridge. They were about to go off anyway… we can get some more strawberries.' My voice jumped up an octave and I took a step back to face him properly. 

‘You touch things that aren't yours. That is your problem. Are you going to go and buy more? Oh no… you expect me to go, on a Sunday, when it is busy, restock the fridge, make sure you have enough strawberries to scoff while you sit around and do what?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on, calm, steady, slow. He always spoke slowly so you were never sure when it was your turn to chime back in. ‘You kids just sit around, make a mess and expect me to do everything. And you ate them all? You didn’t think to share… so selfish. Do you not think about your family? You don’t care about my diet or what I am going to eat, just yourself and whatever suits you…’

‘What’s the big fucking deal? They’re just strawberries!’ I spat out the words. My face flushed. I fixed my eyes on the floor and let my spine curve over and my shoulders drop. I clicked my fingers, a joint at a time, getting faster as I moved from one hand to the next.

He smiled. 

‘You don’t dare fucking speaking to me like that. You selfish little brat.’ 

‘We can get more strawberries. I am doing the shop tomorrow, I will just buy more’, I blurted out before he could carry on. I felt a knot at the back of my throat, white noise flooded my ears. 

I barely registered his reply, despite the volume, ‘What fucking good does that do me today?’

We were both yelling. A flurry of words completely engulfed me. I couldn’t make sense of them any more. ‘Lazy’ barrelled through me, ‘Brat’ stung hard, ‘Selfish’ whacked into me with such force that I just stopped. I stopped yelling - he didn’t. My neck was hot, I could feel tears about to escape my eyes. I ran past him to the front door, grabbed my shoes, my bag off the hook, I was finally outside.   

I walked quickly, rummaging around in my bag, hoping I still had that £10 my dance teacher gave me yesterday for helping out with the younger classes. I went straight to the shop and I bought three punnets of strawberries. I was surprised to see they were still on sale. It had been nearly a week since I'd picked them up on the last food shop. When I got home, every door was closed. I snuck them into the fridge and retreated to my room. An hour later, I heard my Mum’s shrill shrieks, followed by his low roar, the theme tune for this house. The strawberries sat in the fridge for 3 weeks before I eventually threw them out.

I am interesting in writing about family dynamics & memories, the ways in which different moments in times are remembered differently by different people and the tensions that continues to cause long past the moment. I am loosely basing them on moments in my own life, but framing it as 1st person narrative fiction rather than a memoir. I have been writing little short pieces of prose based on scenes which stick out in my life. I am not sure if they will become a book or a narrative one day, but just playing around with the theme. This is one of my first stories - I would love some feedback. Is it any good, readable, interesting? Do I have a distinct voice coming through? What do I need to work on? Any parts which aren’t clear or need rephrasing?

I have also tried to evoke the anxiety / intrusive thoughts of the narrator at one point - does it work?

Trigger warning - abuse

Thank you!!

-----------------------------------
Scratching At The Back of Her Mind

I sat on the sofa, staring at the TV, not taking much in. The news cycle spun in the background. Mum was hovering, pacing from the kitchen and back again, as if trying to figure out what she was supposed to be doing. 

‘Do you have water?’
‘Shall I make a snack? No… I am not hungry either, really’
‘We could go for a walk! Oh you’re right - god, it snows a lot here!’
‘I might just do a once over on that oven again, there is a bit at the back I didn't quite reach’

Enough. ‘Why don’t you just sit down for a minute?’ The words shot out more harshly than I intended. But it worked.

I tried to ignore the nervous energy she was radiating into the room and wondered how I had gotten here. Pre-surgery me, and my understandably concerned wife, thought I would need the help. Or maybe I agreed because she needed to be there. She is so desperate to do the caring now she didn’t do then. When your daughter has a hysterectomy, you should be there. So I let her. Here we are, Mother and daughter, sloppies on (as she always called it), blankets wrapped around our legs, TV lighting up our faces but washing right over our heads. 

If someone were to look through the window, they would see a normal scene. Mother and daughter, sloppies on (as she always called it), blankets wrapped around our legs, TV lighting up our faces. But if they were to come inside, I wonder if they would feel the tension? We don't know how to just be. Everything she says scratches a nerve at the back of my neck. Viscerally. I can’t let her play the role of Mum. She gave up that space in my heart years ago and I can’t fit her back into it. I do try. 

My insides felt like stretched jelly, soft and gloopy but pulled tight at the same time. My head felt like it was floating a foot above the rest of me. My body was soaking up all my energy, just to stay barely upright, propped up by a mound of pillows. She sat at the other end of the sofa, upright as if someone might walk in the room and catch her illicitly relaxing.  It means I can’t execute my normal good daughter demeanour. I can’t disguise my annoyance at us trying to relate to each other. She knows it too. For all the ways she is completely oblivious, this she picks up on. 

I can’t remember the story that triggered it, but something jumped off the screen enough to start us off. The oh-so-familiar account - a man does something unthinkable to a woman and we both feel an emotional gut punch. Something in common we can connect on. We recall previous news stories, we think about when it has happened to us. Generic platitudes are the extent of our sharing.

‘Men are the worst’
‘Isn’t it crazy? 97% of women!’
‘She must have been so scared’

I am sure a sadness filled both our eyes thinking about it. I sighed.
 
Not a specific sigh. One for all women, one for my memories. For all the times a man touched me when I didn’t want it, when they decided ‘no’ wasn’t a full sentence, for the time I found out kicking a man in the balls really does work. Not for anything particularly bad. Just the accumulation of being a woman in the world. 

I fixate on the mailbox outside. 

A man appears at the end of the driveway, walking up to the front door, holding a clipboard. I have to answer, he pushes me through the door, his hand jams my face up against the wall, I can’t move my legs. I would have to call Moe, have to ask a neighbour to drive me to the hospital, I wouldn’t be able to walk myself from the parking lot into my work anymore, I wou-

Her voice pulls me back. ‘Michael never did anything like that to you, did he?’

Her tone was as mundane as the rest of the conversation. The typical concern, frustration, sadness that comes with the topic, not the despair, panic or fear that should come with a question like that. 

Why would she ask that?

My brain started analysing faster than I could keep up.

Did he? This man was an emotional abuser. He knew how to tear you down, make you feel like nothing. He didn’t hold back from getting physical when he wanted. I have spent so much time trying to make sense of growing up in that house with that man. This isn’t part of my story. 

Did she suspect it? This question seemed to have bubbled up as if she had it scratching at the back of her mind. Were there moments which hinted at something darker? Were my stepsisters subjected to an abuse I didn’t see? Did she endure that abuse so much that it only seemed logical that his sexual anger spilled out of their bedroom and into one of ours?

Did I block out or misremember a whole chapter of my life? Did I allow yet another bad thing to poison our home and not do anything to stop it? I trust myself enough to not completely undermine my own memories - but I considered it for just a moment.

Did she throw a completely unfounded bomb into the room? Twisted. If she can get me to consider the possibility of something this horrific, maybe I can downplay the reality. If she can move the benchmark for a bad childhood, maybe I can rationalize away what really happened. Let’s sigh and think of one of the worst ways men wrong women. But the man who wronged us didn’t do that, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad. 

Either way, it took her until my mid-30s to even fucking ask? What is she going to do about it now? Now that I have created a life full of love. Now that I haven’t seen that man for 15 years. 

I couldn’t think of which question to ask, which thought to express first. So I didn’t.

‘No’. I heaved myself off the sofa and shuffled out of the room.

As I hunched over the sink, I noticed my skin drained of colour, my hair spilling out of my scrunchie. My eyes focussed in on the water spots sprayed over the mirror. I reached out to scratch one off. Then another. My breathing slowed down, my jaw tightened up. What are you doing, correct your posture. My stitches pulled as I lifted my head and straightened my back. 

I was not ready to attempt this conversation. I didn’t have the strength. I was 3 days post-op. 

When I reemerged, it was as it was. Unspoken tension like before. A vacant smile on her face. Our eyes glazed over, images of war now sprawled across the screen. I waited for my wife to come home. 

My Mum got on the plane home a few days later, and my energy started to come back. The weeks went by and I pulled myself out of my soft pillow fort and back into real life. Kind-hearted check-ins were touching but not comforting. 

‘So glad you’re feeling better.’ 
‘It must have been so nice having your Mum here!’ 
‘Isn’t it nice to be pampered while someone else takes care of you?’ 

The nastiness I was feeling wanted to spill out. But you can’t put that on an unsuspecting friend. I can only imagine what was running through Moe’s head as I asked her again, ‘Why would she say that?’ We ran through the gossip list we keep on our notes app whenever my Mum is around, laughing our way through the out-of-pocket comments and dissecting the bizarre behaviour, unravelling the past through today’s lens.

6 months later and it hasn't been mentioned. I made the decision to trust my own memories and not try to understand the things my Mum says or does. I put some intentional distance between us; answering the phone only every other time, waiting a day or two between texts - it is easier to do from the other side of the world. I hate that I am here again, building up a wall. I feel completely foolish to still be playing this game of opening up and shutting out. You would think I would have found the balance by now.

On a random Sunday morning, spurred on by a push from her therapist, she decided that it was time to peek over the wall I have built. Her face appeared on my phone screen and my Nan was scurrying behind her, jabbering on about the captain. They have just arrived on a river cruise, their annual week of drinking cappuccinos and tasting pastries at different European bakeries. I cheersed to their holiday and tried to end the call, but she wanted to talk, she had something important to say. ‘Just give me a second, I have to get your Nan up the stairs’, as if she didn’t call me. She settled in the boat’s bar with clinking glasses, excited chatter and sun beaming through the window. 

What a setting for what’s about to come.

‘I try to not upset you, but I feel you like you are always rolling your eyes about something I have said or done’

‘I’m not doing that Mum’, my defenses were up, I definitely rolled my eyes.

‘When I left in December, I felt like you and Moe were just so relieved to see the back of me’

Are we really going to do this?

She launched into a tirade about how I must think our values are so misaligned because of the coffee incident… I can’t even place what she is referring to. She must have recognized my confusion because the details keep coming.  

‘At Boston Airport’ she finally explained.

It clicked - yes, the bad coffee. She thought I had been withdrawn because she was rude to the man who served her a bitter coffee at Boston Airport. She has acted like a Karen since before that term existed. And I have given her shit about it since then too. 

‘Do you really think this is about that?’ My tone was somewhere between confusion and fury. Her face was so earnest.

What story has she been telling herself? If I cope with shutting down, distancing, not engaging. She copes with denial, redirection and deflection. 

I gave her an out. ‘Do you really want to do this now? Here? Like this?’

She held strong to her resolve to have this out. She was genuinely shocked when I told her. As if she doesn’t even remember saying it. Back and forth we went between her denial and my brickwall. I bounced every chance for her to slip out of this right back at her.

‘Why would you ask that? Come on, you wanted to know. Now you do. So explain.’

She babbled nervously but eventually blurted out a reason - I can’t tell if it is true. 

‘I think I saw him once looking at you in the bathroom, I… I wasn’t sure what I saw, but I guess for all these years it has been in the back of my head’

‘So you waited until now to check. You just let it be…  let it happen?’ I kept my tone, my expression, my everything deadpan. I picked at the sticker on my bottle, my fingernail peeling backwards at each flick. I felt the familiar tension around my jaw.

Our words twisted around each other, we weren’t moving forward. Just overlapping thoughts but nothing I could grip onto to lead us to a solid path. 

She fell back on her old faithful combination: outright lying mixed with a strong reminder that she was the victim first. ‘I never thought he did anything like that to you kids, of course not. Only to me.’

Not 2 minutes ago she was describing him peering around a bathroom door. I knew at this point it was over. 

‘Have a nice holiday Mum, show Nan a good time - she deserves it’

She was crying as we said goodbye. I hung up and I still didn’t shed a tear. That stony exterior was out for long enough that it permeated right through to the core. I knew my plans for the day were done. I found solace in ‘next episode starts in 3… 2… 1’ for the next 7 hours. 

Trigger warning - abuse.

I have written my first thing ever and I would love some feedback! I have always wanted to write about my childhood and my family relationships, almost as a form of therapy for myself but I also think I have an interesting story to tell. I have found it too hard before but I think I am finally ready. I have just started writing little short pieces of prose based on scenes which stick out in my life. I am not sure they will ever become a book or a narrative, right now I am just writing my life like it is 1st person fiction and seeing what comes out. This is one of my first stories - I would love some feedback. Is it any good? Do I have a distinct voice coming through? What do I need to work on? Any parts which aren’t clear or need rephrasing?

Thank you!!!

---------------------------------------------------------

Scratching At The Back of Her Mind

I sat on the sofa, staring at the TV, not taking much in. The news cycle spun in the background. My Mum sat at the other end. It was weird that she was here to look after me - nothing felt right about it. She didn’t sit naturally in this role. I didn’t either. 

Pre-surgery me, and my understandably concerned wife, thought I would need the help. Or maybe I agreed because she needed to be there. She is so desperate to do the caring now that she didn’t do then. When your daughter has a hysterectomy, you should be there. So I let her. 

If someone were to look through the window, they would see a normal scene. Mother and daughter, sloppies on (as she always called it), blankets wrapped around our legs, TV lighting up our faces. But if they were to come inside, I wonder if they would feel the tension? It’s like we don’t know how to talk to each other. We don't know how to just be. Everything she says scratches a nerve at the back of my neck. Viscerally. I can’t let her play the role of Mum. She gave up that space in my heart years ago and I can’t fit her back into it. I do try. 

My insides felt like stretched jelly, soft and gloopy but pulled tight at the same time. My head felt like it was floating a foot above the rest of me. My body was soaking up all my energy, just to stay barely upright, propped up by a mound of pillows. It means I can’t execute my normal good daughter demeanour. I can’t disguise my annoyance at us trying to relate to each other. She knows it too. For all the ways she is completely oblivious, this she picks up on. 

The news carries on, we are only half listening, but something jumps off the screen enough to start us off. I can’t remember the story that triggered it. It could be any story - a man does something unthinkable to a woman and we feel it in our guts. Something in common we can connect on. We recall previous news stories, we think about when it has happened to us. Generic platitudes are the extent of our sharing.

Men are the worst
It has happened to all of us
Such a shame she went through that

I am sure a sadness filled both our eyes thinking about it. I sighed.
 
Not a specific sigh. One for all women, one for my memories. For all the times a man touched me when I didn’t want it, when they decided ‘no’ wasn’t a full sentence, for the time I found out kicking a man in the balls really does work. Not for anything particularly bad. Just the accumulation of being a woman in the world. 

‘Michael never did anything like that to you, did he?’

Her tone was as mundane as the rest of the conversation. The typical concern, frustration, sadness that comes with the topic, not the despair, panic or fear that should come with a question like that. She took the collective women’s experience at the hands of men and put it right into my lap. Pulled a very real threat from our past into the present day.

Why would she ask that?

My brain started analysing faster than I could keep up.

Did he? This man was an emotional abuser. He knew how to tear you down, make you feel like nothing. He didn’t hold back from getting physical when he wanted. I have navigated through the trauma of my childhood and growing up in that house with that man. This isn’t part of my story. 

Did she suspect it? This question seemed to have bubbled up as if she had it scratching at the back of her mind. Were there moments which hinted at something darker? Were my stepsisters subjected to an abuse I didn’t see? Did she endure that abuse so much that it only seemed logical that his sexual anger spilled out of their bedroom and into one of ours?

Did I block out or misremember a whole chapter of my life? Did I allow yet another bad thing to poison our home and not do anything to stop it? I trust myself enough to not completely undermine my own memories - but I considered it for just a moment.

Did she throw a completely unfounded bomb into the room? Strangely, this is the theory which I find the most twisted. If she can get me to consider the possibility of something this horrific, maybe I can downplay the reality. If she can move the benchmark for a bad childhood, maybe I can rationalize away what really happened. Let’s sigh and think of one of the worst ways men wrong women. But the man who wronged us didn’t do that, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad. 

Either way, it took her until my mid-30s to even fucking ask? What is she going to do about it now? Now that I have created a life full of love, trust and closeness. Now that I haven’t seen that man for 15 years. 

I couldn’t think of which question to ask, which thought to express first. So I didn’t.

‘No’. I heaved myself off the sofa and shuffled out of the room.

As I leaned over the sink, I noticed my skin drained of colour, my hair spilling out of my scrunchie. My eyes focussed in on the water spots sprayed over the mirror. I reached out to scratch one off. Then another. My breathing slowed down, my jaw tightened up, and I stood up as tall as my stitches would allow. 

I was not ready to attempt this conversation. I didn’t have the strength. I was 3 days post-op. 

When I reemerged, it was as it was. Unspoken tension like before. A vacant smile on her face as if we enjoy each other's company. We looked back at the TV screen and I waited for my wife to come home. 

My Mum got on the plane home a few days later, and my energy started to come back. The weeks went by and I pulled myself out of my soft pillow fort and back into real life. Kind-hearted check-ins were touching but not comforting. So glad you’re feeling better. It must have been so nice having your Mum here! Isn’t it nice to be pampered while someone else takes care of you? The nastiness I was feeling wanted to spill out. But you can’t put that on an unsuspecting friend. I can only imagine what Moe must have thought or felt, as I asked her again, ‘Why would she say that?’ We ran through the gossip list we keep on our notes app whenever my Mum is around, laughing our way through the out-of-pocket comments and dissecting the bizarre behaviour, unravelling the past through today’s lens.

6 months later and it hasn't been mentioned. I made the decision to trust my own memories and not try to understand the things my Mum says or does. I put some intentional distance between us; answering the phone only every other time, waiting a day or two between texts - it is easier to do from the other side of the world. I hate that I am here again, building up a wall. I feel completely foolish to still be playing this game of opening up and shutting out. You would think I would have found the balance by now.

On a random Sunday morning, spurred on by a push from her therapist, she decided that it was time to peek over the wall I have built. Her face appeared on my phone screen and my Nan was scurrying behind her, jabbering on about the captain. They have just arrived on a river cruise along the Danube, their annual week of drinking cappuccinos and tasting pastries at different European bakeries. I cheersed to their holiday and tried to end the call, but she wanted to talk, she had something important to say. ‘Just give me a second, I have to get your Nan up the stairs’, as if she didn’t call me. She settled in the boat’s bar with clinking glasses, excited chatter and sun beaming through the window. 

What a setting for what’s about to come.

‘I try to not upset you, but I feel you like you are always rolling your eyes about something I have said or done’

‘I’m not doing that Mum’, my defenses were up, I definitely rolled my eyes as I answered.

‘When I left in December, I felt like you and Moe were just so relieved to see the back of me’

Are we really going to do this?

She launched into a tirade about how I must think our values are so misaligned because of the coffee incident… I can’t even place what she is referring to. She must have recognized my confusion because the details keep coming.  

‘At Boston Airport’ she finally explained.

It clicked - yes, the coffee incident. She thought I had been withdrawn because she was rude to the man who served her a bad coffee at Boston Airport. She has acted like a Karen since before that term existed. And I have given her shit about it since then too. 

‘Do you really think this is about that?’ My tone was somewhere between confusion and fury. Her face remained so earnest.

What story has she been telling herself? If I cope with shutting down, distancing, not engaging. She copes with denial, redirection and deflection. 

I gave her an out. ‘Do you really want to do this now? Here? Like this?’

She held strong to her resolve to have this out. She was genuinely shocked when I told her. As if she doesn’t even remember saying it. Back and forth we went between her denial and my brickwall. I bounced every chance for her to slip out of this right back at her.

‘Why would you ask that? Come on, you wanted to know. Now you do. So explain.’

She babbled nervously but eventually blurted out a reason - I can’t tell if it is true. 

‘I think I saw him once looking at you in the bathroom, I… I wasn’t sure what I saw, but I guess for all these years it has been in the back of my head’

‘So you waited until now to check. You just let it be…  let it happen?’ I kept my tone, my expression, my everything deadpan. I picked at the sticker on my bottle, my fingernail peeling backwards at each flick. I felt the familiar tension around my jaw.

Our words twisted around each other, we weren’t moving forward. Just overlapping thoughts but nothing I could grip onto to lead us to a solid path. 

She fell back on her old faithful combination: outright lying mixed with a strong reminder that she was the victim first. ‘I never thought he did anything like that to you kids, of course not. Only to me.’

Not 2 minutes ago she was describing him peering around a bathroom door. I knew at this point it was over. 

‘Have a nice holiday Mum, show Nan a good time - she deserves it’

She was crying as we said goodbye. I hung up and I still didn’t shed a tear. That stony exterior was out for long enough that it permeated right through to the core. I knew my plans for the day were done. I found solace in ‘next episode starts in 3… 2… 1’ for the next 7 hours.