Every morning, my mother wakes up well before me, prepares my lunch, and takes off.
Every evening, after eating out, my mom comes home, washes up, closes her bedroom door, and is asleep by 9PM.
We live in the same space. But we’ve lived like strangers under one roof for decades now. The only exchanges are the meals she cooks for me. No hellos, no goodbyes, and no “I love you.”
I watch her, knowing that beneath the deafening silence lies a secret that weighs heavily on her, keeping her from speaking; knowing that behind her tightly pursed lips is a shame so overbearing that it suffocates her. One day, I finally summon up the courage to sit her down and make her talk. But am I ready to hear what she has to say? And are we ready to face what’s been buried for so long?