032

                                    

                                          
"Motherhood is the exquisite inconvenience of being another person's everything." — Unknown
Rae is asleep, but I'm wide awake.
Mom said she would be home before 8, and the clock is starting to approach 11:30. She hasn't answered any of my texts or phone calls, and she stopped sharing her location with me earlier. 
There's a pit inside my stomach as I sit on the living room couch, staring at the door. I'm praying that it opens and she walks in, saying she had to work late, or that she had to help a friend with something. Most of all, I just pray that it does open. 
Please come home, Mom. 
I've always trusted my gut, but right now I want more than anything for my gut to be wrong. Please, Mom, prove my gut wrong. 
She promised me and Rae that this time would be different. She said she was going to stay clean for us, that we mattered more to her than any drug. She was doing well for a few months, but I saw the change in her recently. 
She became more distant, more forgetful. She's been coming home late, and every time she gets groceries, there's less and less food when she comes home. It's barely enough to feed us.
I had to ask my teacher today if I could borrow some money from her. It was the only way that I could make sure Rae and I had enough to eat. As embarrassing as it was, I'd do it all over again to make sure Rae is okay. 
I hear the sound of keys rattling.
The door opens, and Mom enters the apartment. Her hair is tied back messily, and her eyes are bloodshot. I try to tell myself she's just tired; it's been a long day. But the truth hits me in the face when I see the bandage on her forearm. 
"Kizza, what are you doing up, baby?" she asks me, squeezing my face in her hands and kissing my forehead. 
I blink back my tears. I say, "You're using again, Mom."
"What? No, baby. I got clean for you," she says, her voice sweet as honey. She sets her bag down on the coffee table as she plops back on the other couch. She takes her shoes off, resting her feet on top of the table, and lets out a long sigh. 
I state, "There's no food in the fridge."
She sighs again, rubbing her hands over her face and leaning her head back on the couch. Her socks have a hole in them, right on the big toe, and I can see her skin through it. 
Mom says, "I'm sorry, baby. We can't afford much right now. Money is tight."
"You got paid two days ago," I point out. "Where did that money go?"
She shakes her head. "Baby, there's always bills to pay. It's not easy supporting two kids all on my own. I'll stop by the store tomorrow after work, okay? I'll get us more food."
I can see from here, even in the dim lighting, that her eyes are red. She looks distressed too, like she's going to need another hit soon or she'll start going through withdrawal. 
It always starts like this. 
I just wish I was 16 so I could work and make enough money to feed Rae and I. I've been trying to sell my art, but it's hard to find time to be able to draw anymore. All of my art recently has been dark. Too depressing for anyone to want to buy.
Mom pulls out her phone, scrolling through it. She says, "That's weird. Mrs. Brinker called me earlier."
She puts the phone up to her ear, listening to a voicemail. I stand up, trying to grab Mom's phone from her. She pushes me away, looking at me like I'm crazy. I say, "No—Mom—"