Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~
My mom found out about him from a third source. She was so angry that day, telling me that someone else had seen the both of us and what that meant for me and for my family's reputation and honor and a whole bunch of other things I didn't give a damn about.
But I listened quietly as she took out her anger on me. There was no point arguing with my mom in this state. She just pulled out more stories from the past and fed me a lifetime's worth of anger and disappointment. Because that's what I was to her.
A disappointment.
I never did anything right in her eyes. So instead of putting up the pretense of being a good daughter, I gave her and my dad hell. I shrugged every time they would talk to me, gave short and clipped replies, and pretended as if I couldn't hear them occasionally.
If they thought of me as a disappointment, then I would become one.
My mom would yell at me a lot for that, too. For my silence. She would walk really close and shove her finger in my face and scream at the top of her lungs, and I would simply blink at her. Because I knew how much my indifference pissed her off.
And then I would retreat upstairs and pace around tensely, biting my lip. Because I had a weak heart. And despite my rudeness and stubbornness, insomnia always found me after fights with my parents.
I didn't want to admit it then, but I felt guilty for the way I behaved. Back then, that word made me tremble with dread. It made me angry.
Because it meant weakness.
And I didn't want to admit that I had the weakest, most cowardly heart of all.
