I woke up with banging in the kitchen. Assuming the worst, I ran downstairs, noticing that my mother’s bedroom was lit up with curtains pulled back and all. Is it her? Skeptically, I peeked into the source of the clatter. It was her alright.
Pans were on the floor and counters, shatters of what used to be a plate covered the floor tiles, and my mother was kneeling on the floor with her head and arms were buried in a cabinet. I gulped, wondering if I should try to understand or sneak away as fast as possible. But, if I escaped, I just knew she would yell at me for not running to her assistance. Thus, I chose the former.
“M-mom?” I stuttered.
She did not seem to hear me.
“I-is everything okay?” I tried speaking a bit louder, my knees shaking like a nervous child.
“What does it look like
