Photo: Susanne Jutzeler on Pexels.com
“Where is the blasted thing?!”
I sighed and put the textbook down. Momma never could maintain a smidgen of patience in herself.
“I’ll get it!” I rose and walked the three steps that separated my bedroom from the eat-in area. The measuring tape was exactly where she’d left it, on the dinette.
Momma was sitting on the floor not two feet from the table, one chair upended and her own legs sprawled straight out. She was wearing one of her depressing “housecoats” and a frown to match. It was uncanny how she managed to unbutton her kindly outward appearance and shed it right along with her matching sets of slacks and blouse.
My friends never did believe me that the woman who was head of PTA, mistress of all bake sales, and Lady-Of-The-Smile in charity drives and Christmas fairs, was a terror to be mothered by.
“Here, Momma.”
Her red-clawed hand reached for the tape. “And scissors? Did your pea brain stop a moment to consider I will need the scissors?”
She’d decided to reupholster the chairs. Again. Her idea of seasonal decoration.
We sat on pumpkins in the fall. On holly in the winter. On bunnies in the spring. On flags in July.
The curtains would be next.
I rummaged in the drawer for the scissors.
“Well?” She growled.
“They aren’t here, Momma.”
“Like hell they aren’t! Didn’t I tell you to never ever touch my fabric scissors? Just you wait till I’m done here!”
The threat had had some teeth to it while I was younger, and though she did not lift a hand to me since I’d grabbed hers in mine to hold her away two years ago — and she’d realized that my extension at five feet nine far exceeded her five foot three wingspan — the words themselves remained. And the possibility.
I kept my distance. Safer when she had a hammer nearby.
Something glinted underneath a corner of the pastel chintz.
“Can that be it?” I pointed.
She grumbled and reached for the scissors. “Just like you to hide it.”
“Can I get you anything else?” I knew better than to take the bait or argue. And I had a test to get back to studying for.
My ticket out, it was.
If I passed, I would be leaving.
I don’t care to where.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: Where
Na'ama Yehuda 
Lovely! I was hooked in by the end of the first sentence 😊
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Thank you … I hope she won’t be ‘hooked’ much longer … 😉
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As with the previous commenter, this story hooked me. But I do believe you’ve been taking peeks into my early teen years.
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Ah, Crispina … I’m sorry … I did not peek into your early life, but unfortunately this is a reality in all too many early lives, and often by the hands of people the ‘outside’ would not think would be capable (let alone actually do so) of such harm to children.
I’m afraid some parts of this might resonate with all too many …
Sending hugs
Na’ama
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It’s okay, don’t feel bad. The past makes us what we are today. Today I’m inspired, and determined, and mostly happy, and almost always smiling and … the past is a memory, is all.
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🙂 Good for you!
I hope the gal in the story — who sounds like she’s got some backbone to her, too — will find inspiration and happiness and a celebration of her worth, too. 🙂
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I believe everyone needs something to fight against. It’s what makes us strong. Those who have it easy… I don’t know, I haven’t seen the research, but I suspect many of them turn out *wrong*.
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I don’t think having a difficult childhood is the way to health or strength … (I I think that having it easy, whatever that means, really, is not a bad thing at all for a child … ), but I DO think that if one can find a way to manage and survive a difficult childhood if they are trust into one, they can turn out stronger in unexpected places.
🙂
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OK, we’ll agree to disagree and agree on that. 🙂
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Fair enough!
Also, I think a lot of it goes to what is defined as challenges versus hardship. I think challenges are healthy, but hardships isn’t necessary. I know not everyone agrees, and that’s okay, too! 🙂
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Ah, now there I do agree. And that sets well with what I said of *too easy*. Too easy, no challenges.
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Gotta love communication! 🙂
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There were pieces of that story that hit a bit close to home. Not quite exactly my mother but very close. Excellent work.
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Hi J. I’m so sorry that this hit close to home … 😦 I suspect it does, for all too many … and often by people who ‘do not look the part’ to the outside world and would never be taken for abusers. It does make one wonder what the story of the mother is (in the story, in real life situations) and it does make my heart ache for those who lived it and those still living it. Thank you for reading and commenting. I hope you found your way to better, too.
Na’ama
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Thanks for replying. I definitely found the way to better. Words like your piece give people like me a voice. Far too many years spent in quiet. Your kind words are much appreciated.
J
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If any of my words give others voice, I am gratified. Thank you for that.
Here’s to being heard, and to having a voice.
Na’ama
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Yikes. Made my blood run cold. Well done.
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Thanks, John.
All too many children grow up this way, and it is often not the people who “look the part” who do the most harm. Thank you for reading and commenting!
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Such good writing! You’re a great story teller, Na’ama. 💚
Adele Ryan McDowell,
AdeleRyanMcDowell.com Adeleandthepenguin.com MakingPeacewithSuicide.com Channeledgrace.com
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Thank you, dear Adele!
xoxo!
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So good!
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Drawn in by the growing horror of the situation the poor girl is in.
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Thank you … (I Think … ;)) And yes, there are all too many for whom this horror is reality. If she gives them voice through some of my writing, I’d have done some good, perhaps.
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You are doing that, rest assured.
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🙂 Yay!
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Hopefully she was successful in her attempt to find a way out. Too bad she had to suffer so much at the hands of her mother.
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Thanks Shweta. Yes, I hope she was successful! Something tells me that she has enough grit to manage to get out and make a life for herself and hopefully stop the legacy that her mother perpetrated (and perhaps perpetuated from her own childhood).
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I’m rooting for her! 😄
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🙂
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