She Doesn't Hug Me
Some mothers hug their children when they’re crying. Mine tells me to sit up straight.
“Crying won’t solve anything,” she says, like it’s a fact. Like gravity.
Her voice is calm, as always. Too calm. Even when I scraped my knee in Primary Four and ran to her with blood running down my leg, she didn’t panic. She handed me a wet towel and said, “Clean it. You’re not a baby.”
That was the day I learned pain wasn’t something we talk about in this house.
I’m seventeen now. I’ve stopped expecting anything soft from her.
—
This morning, she’s in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a cup like she does every day—flawless. Smooth hair. Perfect nails. A wristwatch that probably costs someone’s rent.
I stand there, watching her from the doorway.
“Morning,” I say.
She nods once. “You’re late for school.”
Not good morning, not how did you sleep. Just a reminder.
I swallow. “I have something to tell you.”
She glances at the clock. “Talk.”
“I made the shortlist for the speech competition. Finals are Friday.”
Silence.
Then: “Is that all?”
“I was hoping you could come watch…”
She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and walks past me like I didn’t speak. Like I’m the sound of the fan—background noise.
That’s her love. Cold, quiet, invisible.
—
At school, nobody knows. They see my clean uniform, neat braids, nice shoes. They think I’m lucky. They don’t know I eat dinner alone most nights. Or that sometimes, I sit in the hallway just to hear another voice in the house—even if it’s the news on TV.
After class, I sit under the mango tree near the fence, recording a voice note I’ll never send.
Voice Note 154: Today she looked at me like I was a stranger in her kitchen. Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been raised by a woman who doesn’t believe in warmth.
—
Later, when I get home, I see something strange.
The door to the guest room—the one that’s always locked—is open.
That room is her “storage space.” That’s what she calls it.
I step inside. The air is different here. Dusty. Still.
There’s a small shelf in the corner. On it, a silver music box. I open it slowly, and it starts to play. A soft lullaby. One I’ve never heard, but something about it makes my chest tighten.
“Don’t touch that.”
I freeze.
She’s standing behind me, arms crossed. Her voice isn’t angry. Just cold.
“This room is off limits.”
“I didn’t know,” I lie.
Her eyes meet mine. For once, there’s something in them—panic? Pain? I can’t tell.
She walks over, takes the music box from my hands, and closes it.
“Who gave you this?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But it played a song. It felt…”
“It’s old,” she cuts me off. “It belonged to someone else.”
“Who?”
She doesn’t answer. Just leaves the room, music box pressed to her chest like a secret.
—
That night, I can’t sleep.
Because for the first time, I saw her hold something like it mattered.
And it wasn’t me.
