I WON’T GIVE UP MY DREAMS

Big, red letters engraved into the yellow note page.

“Don’t you know I have cancer, once I die you will have no mother!”

I want to scream too. You’re not the only one who is sick. I have heart disease. You don’t know who will be the first one Death calls.

But then I see her bald head. She had so much vanity in her long, brown hair. They’re smooth like China silk and shine brighter than pieces of jewelry.

“There is no cure,” She proudly announces.

It horrors me. Yes, my mother will eventually die, but I picture that in the far future, maybe after I form my own family. The posters of my favorite band quiver on the ground. I want to roll back into my unmade bed. 

“Ella! You should be studying right now! I didn’t give back your computer for you to goof around. Olivia won the first prize in the regional science competition, she……”

I lower my head stubbornly, pretend not to listen, but words still crumble into my ear. 

“No wonder no one likes you……”

“It’s enough! Stop!”

“Now, get on your practice lesson!”

“Okay!”

She knows I’m mad. She doesn’t care. She is not that kind of mother who puts her relationship with her daughter before her child’s “success”. Sometimes I hate her.

I log in the stupid English class which spends two hours teaching me a simple grammar rule, knowing if I tell my mother I already know it, she will give me a three-hour long quiz. 

When I come out of the room, dinner is on the table. Mother says father rarely comes home nowadays because he can’t stand me arguing. I don’t know. When I was a child I always like Father more. He gave me candy and toy and never demanded me what to do. But he doesn’t love me. Mother loves me and I love her, even though I never like her. 

“Go wash your hands!” Mother yells,  “You always eat like a bird! No one in our family is like that…….”

I can’t tell her about my eating disorder. She called me lazy when I went through my first mental breakdown. Called me a whore who can’t live without men when I went through my first heartbreak. 

“My gosh, your hands are freezing! And you’re wearing that short shorts? No wonder you can’t ever be a mother……”

I haven’t had my period for six months and it’s not because I’m pregnant. I don’t desire to be a mother. But sometimes I imagine having a daughter. Red-headed and tall and skinny. Electric blue eyes and high cheekbones. Just like me but much prettier. I’ll encourage her to try things she likes and follows her dreams. I’ll never break her wings and call her a dishonor to the family.

“Who knows, maybe it’s a blessing! What kind of mother would you be? The kind of women who teach their kids to pee on the street?”

I missed the chance to interrupt, so now I have to listen to the whole speech. My mother thinks I try my best to rebel against her. What a compliment. I’m smart enough to not to cross the line unless I want a good whip or a punch in the face. 

Who knows, maybe one day I will.

Maybe one day any pain will be a relief.