HER STRENGTH HIS SIN

“I’m home, Mum.” Well… that was out of courtesy. I doubt she’ll answer. She’s probably passed out again — drunk, as usual. The air smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The living room looked like it hadn’t seen a broom in days — empty bottles, crumpled tissues, and a photo frame lying face-down on the table. I took a step closer, my shoes sticking to the floor. There she was — Anita Denisse, my mother. One leg thrown over the couch, her head almost touching the floor, snoring softly. She looked so… small, so broken. Tears stung my eyes. Ever since the day that man died, she’s been like this — empty, drunk, pretending life ended with him. But not me. I swore I’d never be pathetic like her. Still, I miss him. That man. My dad. My favorite person. He used to call me his little sunshine, always telling me stories before bed, teaching me how to whistle, laughing whenever I got it wrong. Now the house is just noise and silence — noise from the bottles, silence from the grave. I knelt beside Mum, sighing as I adjusted her body back onto the couch and pulled a thin blanket over her. She might be a mess. She might be cruel sometimes. But she’s still my mother. As I tucked the blanket, I saw wet streaks on her cheeks — tears. Even in sleep, his memory tortured her. I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I wish you’d wake up, Mum,” I whispered. “Not from sleep. From this.” I stood and looked around — walls stained from years of smoke, a family photo hanging crooked near the door. We looked happy in that picture. Dad had his arm around her; I was in the middle, grinning like the world was perfect. I almost laughed. Perfect? Not anymore. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since morning, but there was nothing on the table except half a loaf of bread and an empty plate. The fridge hummed quietly, holding nothing but expired milk and regret. I poured myself a glass of water, sat at the counter, and stared into the dark kitchen. Nights like this always reminded me how fragile everything was — how one moment could destroy everything you ever knew. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Crying doesn’t pay the bills. Crying doesn’t wake the dead. I looked back at Mum again, her chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. She gave up the moment he left. I won’t. I can’t. Never again will I let a man dominate my world the way my father did hers. I promise. I turned off the lights and headed to my room — a small space with peeling wallpaper and a desk covered in old notebooks. I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the single photo of Dad I kept on the nightstand. “I’m trying, Dad,” I whispered. “But it’s hard.” Some nights, I still wait for his voice — the warmth that used to fill this house. But the only thing that answers is silence. And the silence hurts most all.