I’ve never seen that look in Mom’s eyes. Not even the day I left Dad’s house with her, not even when her friend died.
Her beautiful face blanches, her eyes becoming hollow as she trembles uncontrollably, two lines of tears sliding down her cheeks.
My mom is crying, and all I want to do is to go to her.
Help her.
But I can’t move.
All I can do is watch as she walks toward me, her legs barely holding her as tears stream down her cheeks and onto her neck.
In one single motion, she grabs a lamp from the side of the bed and hits him—the brick that was on top of my chest.
She hits him so hard, letting out a roar that pierces my ears, a roar I can still hear in my dream.
A roar that will deafen me till the day I die.
She hits him, my mom, and he falls forward, then smacks his head on the headboard and drops sideways to the floor.
Mom gathers me in her arms and sobs uncontrollably in my hair.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice intertwined with hiccups. “Pardonnez-moi, mon chou (forgive me, my darling)…so sorry…so, so sorry.”
She repeats that over and over and over again in English, in French—mostly in French—her words barely audible.
But it doesn’t matter. Because Mom finally saved me.
I wrap my arms tighter around her, burrowing my nose in her chest as she crushes me closer.
Mom smells of wine and her delicate Jasmine perfume. She smells of safety and love.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m okay, Ma. Stop crying, please?”
That only makes her cry harder, her sobs echoing in the air.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but eventually, she carries me out of my room, locks it with a key, and takes me to her room.
But she doesn’t stop crying as she takes me to the shower and washes me or as she tucks me in bed and kisses my forehead.
She wipes her eyes, but a new wave of tears appears and she breaks down again.
I wipe her eyes. “Pleure pas, Ma. Je t’aime(Don’t cry, Mom. I love you).”
“Je t’aime plus fort, mon petit trésor(I love you more, my little treasure). Mom knows the problem now. Go to sleep. Mommy will take care of it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Can you sing me a lullaby?”
“‘Fais dodo’?”
I nod excitedly. “Yes!”
She hugs me close to her quaking chest, her fingers stroking my damp hair. Her voice fills the room and my ears like my favorite memories. “Fais dodo, mon petit trésor(Sleep now, my little treasure)…”
That wasthe last time I saw my mother.
