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I want to distract myself with cooking, my only joy in this house, but I already know her answer.
"No, baby I'm already on my afternoon cocktail, don't want to mess up a nice buzz while it lasts!"
She's on her fifth afternoon cocktail, not her first. I search her eyes to see if maybe she's dabbled in something else, but I only see a drunken haze. My eyes glance over her arms quickly, not noticing any new marks or sores.
I make my smile tighter as she releases my shoulders and grabs a beer can from the table closest to the kitchen. She tilts it toward me in offering and I shake my head slightly, already picking up my bag from the couch and making my way towards our small yellow kitchen.
I look around at the walls that are colored from both paint and smoke, smiling slightly to myself in remembrance of the first time I cooked pancakes on my own, to the time when I made my own twist on a traditional Tres Leches cake.
My mother is not the same as me in many ways, but one of the biggest is heritage. Though my Hispanic roots come from my biological father, her Irish genes have culturally taken over my upbringing.
My best friend Ricky was born in Polanco and moved to America when he was three. His family is the closest thing I have to both my ancestry and a family itself. I've spent many nights at his house, flipping through his mother's cookbook and memorizing recipes to take home.
My mom, of course, never ate anything unless I forced it down her throat after another late night at the bar or God knows where, so I never got a real opinion on how my home cooking tasted, but Ricky was always happy to oblige.
I realize that now, standing in our small kitchen, is probably the best time to tell her why I'm actually here. Why I've decided to disrupt my peace with the personal hell that is this woman and this house. I need a signature to continue my third year of school, the tutoring program I did in high school has lasted me until my junior year of college and this is the last time I'll ever need to ask her for anything, which I know will already be an issue.
"Mom, there's a reason why I've come home early. I need you to sign off on my last tutoring installment so I can continue this next semester."
She immediately chokes on her sip of beer, and I want to rip my hair out in response, but I maintain my composure.
"Let me just grab a pen really quick. I have it all right here, and when you're done I'll make some dessert."
Maybe if I bake, I can get through this one night of bullshit and be on my way back to my new life, back to my blossoming future that I've fought tooth and nail for.
I set both the paperwork and a pen on my table and looked up, not liking the sight before me. She looks paler, her balance faltering and her face full of arrogance and maybe a twinge of...guilt.
What the fuck now?
"I've been meaning to tell you, Emmie. Some things came up and I needed to dip into your USC fund a little bit."
I feel the heat rising to my face and coming out of my ears. I clench my fists and nod for her to continue.
She throws her hands up, exasperated by my short and silent response.
"I needed it for bills honey, no worries. You'll be fine, the market down the road is still hiring and would love your help for the summer, I'm sure!"
Her words were slow and slurred. I maintain my composure, though I'm dying to combust at this given moment.
"How much did you take?"
She looks down and shrugs. Throwing her now empty can of beer in the overflowing trash can, she turns to grab a new one from the fridge. I rush in front of it, forcing her to stop and look at me. What I see, I don't like.
"How much did you take, Mom?"
She rolls her eyes, because she's the one that should be annoyed.
"How. Much. Did. You. Fucking. Take. Mom?"
Her face is flushed and there's a fire in her green eyes. I notice that I'm shaking now, my anger and weariness mixing in the pit of my stomach.
Please, please don't say it, Mom.
She looks up, her chin jutting out in defense.
"All of it."
I realize now that this is the moment when I will commit my first murder.
