My Mother In My Life

In the fall of 2012, my mother almost succumbed to her illness. I had just begun my freshman year of high school midst angry conversations between my parents and the threat of separation. It would seem as if they bickered about the most irrelevant things, almost as if they had no other reason to fight other than the fight itself. Those moments were excruciatingly lonely, my father worked until the dead of night and my mother would come home exhausted from treatment. I now know that there was no one who felt more unvalued than my mother. I wish I had the ability to iron away this blunder that destiny had fabricated, however foolish this desire is.

On Wednesday, November 26, 2014, I was coming out of a very hectic day at work, when I received the news that had me breaking down in tears. “Odette your mother is in the emergency room.” I could not believe the words that were coming out of my father's mouth in that instinct. So many thoughts came rushing through my mind. “Why, my mom?” I kept on asking myself, but I knew that I could not show my depression to my two younger siblings. The reason for that was that I did not want to scare them nor make them feel the horrible feeling that I was feeling inside. Even though I appeared to look fine in the outside, my precious soul was dying in sorrows in the inside. The scariest thought of knowing your mother is in danger and that you cannot do anything to save her is very traumatizing. I honestly felt like my hands were tied behind my back while I saw her drowning in pain.

And then, the day I had feared of most, finally arrived. We lost our father, the only figure I truly felt safe with. After months of mourning and painful transformations, our mother fell sick. In those terrible days, days during which I was locked in the basement most of the time, for my safety and even more: for the safety of my family, I was incapable of helping. To this, I regret even today.

All I wanted was moments with my mom when I was nine; I did not get it. What about age ten, eleven, and twelve? My whole childhood was snatched out from under me, and I had to grow up way to fast. Don’t worry, I did not blame you. I blamed myself until I was fifteen. It was my fault my mother tried to drown my sisters and me. I saw signs and clues. I could tell she was not acting herself, but I said nothing. I didn’t go and ask another grownup for help. I put my sisters’ lives in danger, because I didn’t protect them.

The following months a winter, cold and gloomy, surrounded the house. My grandmother came to stay with us since my father had fallen into depression and needed help taking care of my sister and I. When my grandmother went grocery shopping my sister would struggle with homework without my grandmother’s help. One day when my grandmother left to go grocery shopping my sister approached me, which was unusual of her since its very rare for her to come to me. Her dark brown hair and big eyes reminded me of my self when I was younger. “I’m hungry” she complained, a question she’s never asked me. My father sleeping and my grandmother away, I was the only one left to take care of her and that terrified me. I had never cared for or known how to care for someone else. All I knew was how to evaluate whether or not someone was caring for another correctly.

“Mom, have you eaten?” I would ask every morning and evening. The answer was always no. My heart hurt to watch her implosion but there was nothing I could do to help her beyond manage daily minutiae. My brother was always fed, the floors were clean, the laundry didn’t mold.

That was until I started noticing the signs. The glares from across the room, the directly “indirect” comments, and worst of all, the constant echoes of their quarrels in the late hours of the night. I often .wondered how their vocal chords could stand angrily barking for what felt like years every night. The realization of what was happening didn’t settle in until I saw Father’s car reverse down the driveway, never to return again. I looked straight into the depths of my mom’s eyes, not even detecting a speck of a single tear, but instead a little gleam of hope. I could tell she knew life would be better, and if she believed that then I didn’t understand why I couldn’t either. Adjusting to the new lifestyle was easier for me than my brother; he was always my dad’s favorite. I, on the other hand, always took my mom’s side on arguments, which slowly created a rift between Father and my relationship. It came to a point where I had stopped visiting altogether. My life had turned upside

As I awoke on the average school day ready to take on the world. I do my usual morning routine, but I feel as if something isn't right. As I head downstairs I see my mother sitting on the couch crying and my father comforting her. I ask my father “What’s wrong with mom?” and I get confronted

I unbuckled my car seat and leaned forward to see my mother’s tear stricken face. I had never seen my mother cry with such sincerity. Her mascara streaking down her cheeks, creating canals of charcoal grime that tarnished her otherwise flawless face. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she attempted to talk through another sob. The sight of her pulled me back to only minutes earlier when

When I was a very young child, my mom died. It was an accident, or, at least, that’s what my dad always told me. I never quite believed it, but I knew better than to push it at that time. Because I had a sister to support – Samantha. She was four years younger than me, and she was my responsibility from the very beginning. Or so my father tried to convince me. I was always to be taking care of Sammy – Sammy came first. Everything was about her, but I could tell her nothing.

Getting out of mom’s Ford Ranger, I close the door a bit too heavy handed. When it slams forcefully, I cringe as I move toward the house. I am extra tired tonight after pulling double shift at the Inferno Recycling Center. It’s getting old that I always seem to be the one covering Chelsea’s shifts. This is the third time she has called in sick this week. There being virtually no other jobs in town, I have no choice then to suck it up. I was going to College to become a Special Effects Make-Up Artist. Since momma became sick three months ago, the only option I had was to drop out. There is no one else who can care for her except me. My beloved brother Eli died in a motorcycle accident nine years ago. He was twenty at the time. It was my eighth birthday the

I ran my fingers across the glossy wood as hot tears dribbled down my face, I watched her pale ghost like face hoping she would wake up. She is such a beautiful women, nobody ever suspected her sadness. It makes me feel as if I did something wrong, I was a terrible son. I felt chilled goosebumps cover my body. My own mother overdosed herself on pills, I never knew that when she fell asleep on new year 's night, that she would never awaken from her slumber.

During the winter of sixth grade my mother had told us she was sick, and that she would not live long. We were surprised, she was our mother, what would we do without her? We had realized that despite the fact that the news had greatly affected us, as a family we were not very close. Although we had realized that even if we hadn't been close before or that we didn't have a lot of time to be with our mother, it was important that we be with her as much as we can and make the most of it. Throughout the months following my mother’s news about being sick, we started to volunteer and help out in different areas and events. My mother wanted to be there for others less fortunate than her, regardless of her situation and treated it like a family outing. We became closer and I started to understand why my mother did what she did. Fortunately, my mother survived the time she had been given, but even after she had gotten better we continued to volunteer and became more

It was an early Sunday afternoon when I got the call from my little brother giving me the news; at the time I was with at my friends house and we had just bought snacks to eat while we watched a movie. At first I was in shock, I couldn’t formulate a full sentence other than, “I have to go.” I tried explaining what was going on in a way that didn’t raise to much alarm, but my mouth and gut would only allow me to say “I have to go” despite my greatest efforts. On the way to my mother’s house I ran scenarios through my head on how I wanted to handle the situation when I got there, I decided that it would be best to not show my sorrow, and be the strong shoulder to lean on while I reminded her that everything was going to be ok. As I climbed up the stairs and opened the door my self-control was gone, the tears began to pour down my face as I hugged my

I was born February 8th, 1998, in Lisbon, Portugal. I lived in a very pretty beach town my whole life called Ericeira. My mom, Maria, was born in Cuba, and she currently works as a translator for Neogen. Because she spoke in Spanish to us almost every day, me and my sister learned to understand and speak a little bit as well. My dad, Antonio, owns a dairy farm in Portugal and also fixes computers as a hobby. I have one little sister and two half sisters. My little sister’s name is Patricia and she is 17 years old. She currently attends Okemos High School. My older sister’s name is Inês, she is 28 years old, and works with the government, and Raquel, my other sister, is 23 years old, just graduated University, and she currently