Prompt Week Ten: Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll always end up back here.

                I crept into the silent house, scared I was going to wake her. School was over for the day and I had a ton of homework and I was excited to have some peace and quiet. The babies were napping and that meant I could start on my work before I had to help my mother take care of them. Dishes were piled up in the sink and dirty laundry was piled high on the top of the washer. I slowly opened the door of the refrigerator so it wouldn’t squeak and wake up my mother and saw it was empty. She’d forgotten to go shopping.  I found a pizza in the freezer and popped it in the oven to cook. The oven shut harder than I expected and the loud clanging of metal filled the eerily quiet kitchen. Holding my breath, I waited for my brother’s piercing cry or her yell, but there was nothing.

                She slept all afternoon and through dinner. The babies woke up and I brought them in the living room so she could sleep. They were cheerful and ready to play and kept themselves occupied on their colorful quilted play-mat that covered the floor. The teletubbies pranced across the television screen as I worked on my algebra homework.

                When she woke up the house was still a mess; the laundry wasn’t done, the dishes were still in the sink and toys littered the living room. My homework was almost done and the babies had tired themselves out. They were whiny, ready for bed again and her patience quickly wore thin. As she slammed the dishes around in the sink, she muttered under her breath about having to do everything, that she never had any help.

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                My stepdad called one day to tell me she wasn’t working anymore. “It’s just temporary,” he said. “Until she starts feeling better.” We both knew that meant nothing, that it could be months or even a year before she came out of it. His voice was dejected, and I remembered the last time I saw him, how much older he had seemed. His beard had turned pepper gray and the wrinkles around his eyes were more prominent. It wasn’t easy for him to be married to her, to know there was nothing he could do to help her feel better but be her punching bag.

                Worried, I called her but she didn’t pick up the phone or call me back when I left messages so I tried a different tactic. I emailed her, asked her how she was doing. Did she want to go to lunch? I wasn’t shocked when she didn’t reply so I kept trying. Nothing.

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                The phone rang and I jumped up to grab it. The babies were sleeping and I didn’t want them to wake up. I was exhausted.  “Who is it?” my mother asked.

                I looked at the caller ID. “It’s Uncle Keith,” I said and placed my hand down on the receiver to answer it.

                She stared at me blankly. “Tell him I’m not here,” she said before turning back to Jeopardy.

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                I had a busy day planned. Work in the morning followed by class and essay writing in the evening. I barely had time to breathe but my spirit was lifted by a pleasant email from my mother inviting me to go to Portland to visit my brother. We hadn’t spoken in months and it was a surprise to hear from her. I immediately responded promising to request the weekend off from work. It wasn’t often I was invited to do anything with her and I wasn’t about to give her a chance to change her mind. Maybe things were finally changing.

                Weeks went by; it was almost time to go to Portland. I was tired and I signed onto Facebook like I did every morning. My messages were overflowing, five emails from my mother. Scared, I clicked on them. She had written a book, the story of her life. Graphic details about the hardships she’d endured and her struggle to get through each day. Shocked and overwhelmed by the story I already knew, I politely told her I hoped she was getting better and left it at that. I was sure if I said anymore, told her what I really thought, I would damage the fragile relationship we barely had.

                More emails, more recollections of bad experiences and alternate diagnoses. It was too much. All I wanted was a mother, someone who asked about my day but these emails were all about her. I wanted it to be over; my sympathy was gone, replaced by anger and resentment. I couldn’t try anymore or hide how I felt.

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                “I can’t believe you’re not going to my competition,” I whined.

                “Samantha. I can’t,” she said. “I’m tired, I worked all week and now you want me to drive all the way to Gardner for your cheering competition so I can watch you dance for five minutes? I don’t know what you expect from me.”

                “I know…but you never go to anything. I work really hard and we have an awesome routine. I think you’d really like it. If you saw it,” I ventured.

                “I. Said. No. I have a headache.”

                I stifled my tears, unwilling to let her see how much it meant to me. “Well I hope you feel better,” I said, smiling at her.

                “Me too,” she groaned, forgetting to tell me good luck. I walked out the door and forcing myself to forget about her dismissal, I tried to focus on winning the competition.