Living Proof

Mom only hummed when someone important was watching.

Minutes ago it stunk of food rot,

and the cookies warming up won’t mask it.

Minutes ago she was angry,

before my sister got here and she had to play pretend.

Scientists should study Mom’s transformation.

The arrival of my sister triggers

a seismic shift in her being.

The same mouth that cussed me out

is sweetly humming a tune as she checks the oven.

The same lips that called me a lazy bitch

land on my sister’s cheek, leaving a lipstick stain.

The same hands I see mixing, spooning, and rolling

in those motherly made-with-love motions,

they wouldn’t make dinner last night.

I had Ramen, again.

I’m tired of Ramen.

How do I explain to my sister it’s not real?

It’s real to her.

And that’s enough to convince most people.

I wonder if she ever believes

this version of Mom struggles with split custody weekends.

I would.

Instead I hold my breath.

My body is tensed,

like prey that understands too well

its position in the food chain.

At any given moment,

we are one meltdown away from her revealing the truth:

that she isn’t the person she’s acting like.

That it’s all fake.

That all her motherly instincts,

supposedly ingrained,

flip like a switch.

Like her mood.

Her energy.

If this Mom can make two households

feel like a home,

my sister won’t understand my room with no locks.

No.

Those were taken

and placed somewhere

where she put my self-esteem.

I don’t have the heart

to explain to my baby sister,

her mother’s affection is conditional.

So I let her take this version.

It’s better for her in the end.

At least one of us gets to believe in the maternal ideal,

falsely portrayed as it may be.

To have a chance to feel protected and important.

That we just may have gifts to give the world.

To believe in ourselves because we were

taught to.

I won’t take that.

I prefer to be misunderstood for years,

forever even,

if it gives her what I never had.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy

what it’s like to leave,

to have options,

a true safe place.

To grab my bags, reclaim my value,

and shout, “I’m finally free!”

Whoever says children

from the same households

experience the same childhood —

I’m living proof they don’t.