A mother’s rage

I used to drive my mom up the wall—literally—with a rubber ball. Thwack, thwack, thwack against my bedroom wall, each bounce a tiny rebellion that made me grin like a fool. I’m not proud of it, but her fury was comedy gold. She’d burst in like a one-woman SWAT team, all five feet of her, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring like a cartoon bull. “Stop that racket!” she’d bellow, and I’d stifle a laugh, knowing I’d do it again tomorrow.

Sometimes, she’d up the ante. Once, she stormed in wielding a frying pan in one hand and a butter knife in the other, brandishing them like a chef turned assassin. “The ball or your life,” she growled, and I lost it, cackling as I surrendered the ball. Worth it. Her rage was theater, and I was her willing audience, ready to lose my ninth or tenth ball to the cause.

And then there was the time I hid ten rubber balls all around the house, each one labeled with a little Post-it note that read, “In case of emergency, bounce me.” She found the first one in her shoe and called me a little gremlin. By the time she found the third, she had to leave the room to laugh.

One evening, I bounced the ball so hard it ricocheted off three walls and knocked over her precious ceramic angel. It shattered, and I was sure I was dead. She stood over the shards like a bereaved funeral guest, then turned to me with slow, terrifying calm and said, “Sleep with one eye open, child.” I didn’t blink the entire night.

Still, it was our thing—this ridiculous, harmless war. My rebellion, her performative wrath. We didn’t say “I love you” a lot in my house, but somehow, thwack meant “I’m here,” and “STOP THAT” meant “I see you.”

So here I was again, ball in hand, ready for the show. The house was quiet—too quiet, maybe, but I didn’t dwell on it. Thwack, thwack. I bounced the ball off the wall, waiting for the familiar stomp of her footsteps on the creaky hardwood. My arm was getting sore, and I was starting to wonder if she’d finally given up. An hour passed. Then, I heard it: slow, heavy steps, not the usual charge.

The door creaked open, and there was Mom, but she wasn't raging. Her eyes were red, swollen, glistening with tears. My smirk faded. My chest tightened, like someone was squeezing my heart. It wasn’t funny. It was my mom, the woman who worked double shifts and still made me pancakes, crying like I’d broken her.

“Ma, I’m sorry,” I stammer, dropping the ball. “I won’t do it again.” I step toward her, reaching out to hug her, but my hand passed through her shoulder, cold and weightless, like I was made of fog. I stumbled back, heart racing. What the hell?

She didn’t look at me. She shuffled to my bed, sat, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing softly. I’ve never seen her cry—not when she lost her job, not when Dad left. I tried to touch her again, but my fingers slipped through, leaving only a chill in the air.

“I’m sorry, son,” she whispered, staring at the wall where the ball left faint scuff marks. “Please, keep playing.”

I stood frozen, the ball at my feet, as her words echoed in the silent room. So I bounced the ball again—slowly, gently—praying she could still hear me.

"I'm here, Mom."