Dear Mommy

Dear Mommy,

The glare in your eyes scares me. Is it because I left the broccoli on the plate? Is it because I told you I hate your always-too-salty cooking? Is it because I jump out of the chair, run around the table, and feel disgusted by the salad you’ve put together?

Or is it because of the discussion you had with Daddy before the dinner? The not-so-peaceful talk you two had in the kitchen that I overheard from my bedroom upstairs. The rising tone of your voice while mentioning Jane, my nanny’s name, again and again. The high-pitched scream, followed by the door slamming noise and the vrooming sound that gradually faded away.

“You naughty boy! Come here!”

You clench your fist and chase after me. Sensing your nagging, my small limbs refuse to slow down. I pass through the wooden chairs one after another, but eventually, I can feel your hand upon my arms.

The strong grip of your wrist stops my running altogether, and it hurts me. I know you are angry, but Mommy, can you please not drag me to the storage under the stairs? Can you please not lock me in that dark, rat-infested room? Can you please hear the apology in between my bawling?

Even better, can you please just tell me the truth? About your fights with Daddy, and what exactly fueled your anger. About the concerns you raised during the fiery banters, and why Jane became an integral part of it. About what is happening and what will be the future of our family.

“Mommy…, ah….”

You sigh out loud while standing before me. I keep my lips tightly shut, waiting patiently for the continuation of your words, but nil. All I can feel is the sadness radiating from your pale-skinned face.

The silence you keep for the next few minutes pains me. Are you stopping yourself from venting out to your only son, who barely turned six? Are you just organizing your thoughts and calming your nerves, instead of releasing all the raw, pent up emotions to me? Are you, by any chance, stopping yourself from talking bad about Daddy to me?

Oh, I got it. You were heartbroken, weren’t you, Mommy? You must have seen how close Daddy and Jane were - I mean, they often cuddled on your bed, after all. You must have noticed their relationship from the way they look at each other. You must have confronted Daddy about it, but maybe, he took Jane’s side instead of yours.

“Sit here, Dean.”

You tug on the sleeve of my pajamas, forcing me back to the seat. My eyes follow your moves, hovering around the dining table, looking disturbed. Soon after, you plop yourself in the seat next to me, with your mouth gaping open.

The words you utter afterwards traumatize me. You wish Daddy won’t fall in love with Jane in the first place, and so we get to keep our family intact. But now it happens, you hope we never have to part ways when you file the divorce, and we can stay together. You then curse your beloved husband’s infidelity, swear that he is to blame for our broken family.

Do you really mean it, Mommy, or do you spew it out of spite?

“But Mommy, can I ask one question?”

You tilt your head, letting your long black hair sway on one side, revealing the scar you have on the corner of the forehead. “What is it?”

I point at the floor, to the shadow under my feet.

And to the emptiness below yours.

“Aren’t you already dead?”

***

Dear Mommy,

Exactly a month ago, a truck trespassed the red lights and crashed onto your car. The front side of your vehicle was badly damaged, and the airbag popped out of your steering wheel. But the impact of the accident managed to scratch your head open, and you died from significant blood loss.

Well, that was how the news jotted it down.

But I found you roaming around the house that evening as if nothing had happened. You woke me up from my nap, and cooked my dinner. You talked to me, scolded me, punished me when I acted up and refused to eat the vegetables - yes, just like today.

To my surprise, Daddy seemed to be surprised by your presence. He said the utensils were moving on their own. He claimed I made an imaginary friend as I was deeply scarred by your death.

And so, he hired Jane to keep an eye on me.

Little did he know I could see your ghost burning up in jealousy.