Chapter 36: NO LOVE FOR HIM

Rose POV

The night of the dinner, after it had ended so disgracefully, I wiped the makeup clean off my face, frowning as I did so.

“Don’t do that,” I could practically hear my mom’s voice echo in my head. It will give you lines on your forehead. You don’t want to regress rather than age gracefully now, do you?

She was right about most things, and the memory floated to my mind like a stubborn ghost.

A seven-year-old me sat in the kitchen, swinging my legs as I perched on the high stool close to the island that all but consumed most of the space in the small area. It was a common place for Mom to frown and grumble.

“But Mom,” I had complained. “You said it was bad to look like that. You said it’s bad to frown. Why are you frowning?”

Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and bravo to my younger self for asking, especially judging by Mom’s reaction. She spun around so quickly I feared she’d give herself a headache.

“Your father,” she spat bitterly. “Useless. Broke. Having nothing, leaving me confined to this pathetic state.” Her voice rose as she continued. “While I hate it, I hate it, I hate him, I hate everything!”

Mom never made dinner that night. I was forced to steam some potatoes, pour olive oil all over them, and throw in a pat of butter beside it, calling it a meal. Mom spent the night outside. Of course, the potatoes tasted bad—I had forgotten to sprinkle some salt and pepper—but I couldn’t complain. At least, I never dared complain.

“Suck it up and smile,” Dad would always say.

I remembered one time, of course, when I was even younger.

“You only say that because you don’t have any money,” I quipped.

Dad’s face didn’t twist in anger, though. Instead, he looked worried, his brows furrowing as Mom rolled her eyes at him.

Mom came back the morning after that night. I wouldn’t have known if I had slept through the night, but I hadn’t. I had stayed in the living room, keeping an eye on the door. When she finally came home, she chuckled and looked away from me.

“What now?” she asked, her voice tired as she walked slowly into the house.

“You won’t blame me, will you?” she asked me. “You promise?”

“Blame you for what?” my stupid seven-year-old self had asked, completely oblivious to the signs.

Mom’s lips were swollen pink. She had a small hickey on her neck, another mark on her arm, and her hair was disheveled. Her dress was rumpled as well. Mom looked as though she had spent the night playing outside. In my seven-year-old mind, I didn’t know any better.

“Never stop complaining,” she said. “Never stop loathing him. Know what you want. Never stop living by what is wrong and what is right. Otherwise, he will take you for a fool, as he has done to me all these years. What do you think I’ve been stuck with over the years?”

She mumbled something incoherent, then grabbed me by the arm harshly.

“Don’t stop, you hear me?”

Mom left two days later.

She had her bags packed by the time I came home from grade school in our province.

“Mom!” I called, spotting her in the living room. She was writing something on a note. I walked in wide-eyed, taking in the sight of the large duffel bags beside her. “Are you going on a trip?” I asked foolishly.

“Yeah,” she said curtly. “I’m going far, far away, and I’m never coming back.”

“Why?” I asked timidly. “Is it because of me?”

“Yes,” Mom replied bluntly. “Because of you, because of him, because we don’t have the life I want. It’s because none of this makes sense. It’s because I’m poor. I should be more. I should have more.”

She slammed her hand on her chest, the sound reverberating.

“So you’re leaving?” I asked quietly. “Will you come back? Ever? To come see me?”

Mom rolled her eyes, her gaze landing on me for a brief moment.

“I wouldn’t come back to this pigsty for anything. If you want to see me, you’ll have to work your way out of it,” she snapped. She stood, grabbed the duffel bag, and marched toward the door.

“And as for your father?” she added coldly. “Tell him I’m leaving for someone better. Someone who can provide the life I actually want. Someone who actually cares for me and would do anything in his power to make sure I’m well taken care of.”

Her words were harsh.

But all I heard was that she was leaving me and wouldn’t come back. That she was leaving me, and I’d have to work hard to come meet her.

Mom pushed past me and walked out the door.

I stood there for a brief moment, staring at the spot where she had been sitting, almost as though she might dematerialize. Then, reality hit me. Mom was leaving.

I bolted out the door, running after her as tears leaked from my eyes. All the while, I wished she would hold me again. When had she last done that? When had she last told me she loved me?

“Mom!” I screeched, just as I caught sight of her hugging a man—a man larger than my father. He looked strong enough to beat my father in a fight. He was well-fed, no less handsome, and most importantly, there was a car beside him. One of those sleek black cars I had only ever seen on the telly.

It was clear—painfully so—that Mom was gone.

The car started, and she glared at me as though warning me to stay put, to not follow.

I stood there for hours, only realizing how long it had been when my father showed up. How did I know it was hours? Because it was night by the time he came back, the sun had long set.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his heavy hand landing on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Rose,” he called again, tapping my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

Finally, my eyes focused on him, tears brimming.

“Did somebody hurt you?” he asked gently, crouching down to my level.

His face was lined with worry as he adjusted the battered cap on his head.

It was at that moment that something inside me shifted. I felt cynical, even bitter.

From that moment on, I bore no lo

ve for my father. Instead, I ran into the house and slammed the door to my room behind me.