I Finally got the Message

Chapter 3: The middle child meddles

The year I turned eight, we moved. Not far, just a few houses down, but it felt like a world away. My parents were finally getting along, the constant tension in our home replaced by a quiet peace. Dad had taken over the tailor shop after his brother passed away, and things were good. No more yelling, no more slammed doors. It felt like a fresh start.

Then, the news came: Mom was pregnant. I remember thinking, "Maybe this is really it, maybe things are changing for good." We were happy in our new house, making friends with the kids next door. Every day was an adventure: laughter echoing through the streets, dirt smudged on our faces from playing hide-and-seek, the exhaustion of running until we couldn't run anymore. We'd come home to Mom's delicious cooking, share stories over dinner, and finish with dessert, all of us huddled around the table, spoons clinking together. Then, TV, bedtime, and the sweet embrace of sleep.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

One night, I woke to the sound of my mother's screams. "Who is she? Who is she?" she cried, her voice shaking with rage. "I know her, right? Is it Mitchie? Tell me!" Then, Dad's voice, sharp and defensive. "Shut up! Stop making things up! I don't have another woman, and I'm not cheating on you!" The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house.

I found Mom in the kitchen, tears streaming down her face. "Ma, are you crying?" I asked, wrapping my arms around her. "No, I'm not. Go back to sleep," she said, wiping her tears. But I could see the pain in her eyes, the way her shoulders trembled. "Ma, please stop," I pleaded, my own tears welling up. "Go to your room," she said, her voice strained, and I retreated to our room, the weight of her sadness settling on my heart.

The next morning, the shouting started again. This time, it was louder, more desperate. I couldn't stay in my room anymore. I had to see what was happening. "Are you fighting?" I asked, standing between them. "No, we're just talking," Dad said, but Mom's swollen eyes told a different story. "Stop crying. You're pregnant!" Dad said, trying to calm her. "I don't care! Just tell me the truth! I saw your messages, I know what you've been doing! Why can't you just admit it?" Mom yelled, her voice cracking. I watched in horror as she lunged at Dad, fists clenched. "Stop! Please stop!" I cried, my voice choked with fear. "If something happens to the baby, I don't know what I'll do to you!" Dad shouted, grabbing her hands to pull her away. Then, he left, leaving us both in the wreckage of their fight.

The sobs wracked my mother's body as we clung to each other. Then, she pulled away, her face etched with pain. She hurried towards their bedroom, her footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. I followed close behind, desperate to comfort her, but as I reached the door, she slammed it shut, locking it with a click that echoed through the hallway. "Ma? Can I come in?" I called, knocking softly. "Ma? Open the door." Silence. Fear tightened in my chest. I pressed my ear against the door, trying to catch even a whisper of what was happening inside. All I heard was my mother's muffled cries, each one a sharp stab to my heart.

My siblings continued playing outside, oblivious to the storm raging inside our home. I waited, my heart pounding, but Mom didn't come out. Finally, bored and restless, I joined them, the thought of my mother fading into the background of the afternoon's laughter and sunshine.

As the sun began to set, we headed home. Usually, Mom would call us in, but tonight, there was no familiar voice calling us in. I pushed open the front door and stopped short. Dad was in the hallway, his fist pounding against the bedroom door. "Open the door! Don't do anything stupid!" he yelled, his voice hoarse with panic. With each punch, the drywall cracked and crumbled, a hole growing in the wall. I watched, my breath catching in my throat, as he peered through the opening, his face contorted with worry. "Jing! Are you crazy? Don't do that!" he screamed.

He lunged towards the door, pushing it open. I, too, rushed to the hole in the wall. My mother was slumped against the bed, a sharp object clutched in her hand, pressed against her wrist. A wave of terror washed over me. "Mamaaa!" I cried, my voice a strangled sob. "Mama, don't do it!" But my mother was fading, her body drained from the day's tears. She was barely conscious.

Dad burst into the room, his eyes wide with fear. He wrestled the object from her grasp, his face a mask of desperation. "Stop it! Give it to me!" he pleaded. Finally, she relinquished her grip, her body going limp as she collapsed onto the bed. Dad cradled her in his arms, his voice frantic as he tried to rouse her. "Jing! Ma? Wake up!"

I was a whirlwind of tears, my heart aching for my mother. My siblings came home, their faces confused as they saw me weeping, and my mother unconscious, held in my father's arms. But all I could see was my mother, her pale face, her lifeless eyes.

Dad took over dinner that night, the silence in the room thick and heavy. He barely touched his food, his eyes constantly darting towards Mom's room, where she lay sleeping. My siblings and I ate in a quiet, uncomfortable stillness, our stomachs grumbling from a day of play, but our hearts full of unspoken worry. As the night deepened, Dad stayed by Mom's side, his presence a silent promise of protection, though I wasn't sure he could truly mend the cracks that had now begun to show in our family.

The next few days passed in a fragile truce. Mom and Dad didn't fight, and for a while, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things were back on track. Dad had changed, I told myself. But deep down, I knew Mom wasn't convinced.

One day, while Mom was still heavily pregnant, she did something I never thought she would do. She slipped out of the house, unnoticed, and hailed a taxi. I watched her go, my heart pounding with a strange mix of fear and anticipation. She was going to follow Dad. I knew it. And I knew what she'd find.

She followed him to a cafe, a place we'd all been to countless times, a place that now felt like a betrayal. And there he was, sitting across from a girl, laughing, his hand brushing hers. It was Mitchie, Mom's friend, Dad's best friend's sister. The girl she'd suspected all along. Mom was right. She'd been right all along.