On late soundless nights, when papa didn’t come home, mama would lay on her chair and cradle her swollen belly. Her nightgown dripped from her skin and created a silent silhouette, like a butterfly enveloped in a cocoon. She whispered to herself, careful not to wake the slumbering sun. Her once dewy lips were parched dry and her plump cheeks concave. Sweat dropped like honeydew and onto her burdensome breasts like sand spiraling in an hourglass. She would occasionally twist her body to ease the wrinkles in her lower spine, again careful not to alert the next day. It was times like this where she had enough hours to spare for herself, yet she didn’t enjoy it. Papa had brought pain and love all at once, and mama was no longer a young girl. 

When papa came in, he brought in alarming gusts of cold wind that sliced the ends of mama’s nightgown. It was no longer latching onto her body, but almost seemed to fly away only if mama wasn’t anchoring it down. The sweat abandoned her skin until finally the door was locked and father turned on the heater. Papa briskly pushed his cracked lips onto mama’s forehead. Things had changed. Papa no longer rubbed mama’s rosy cheeks, and mama no longer fluttered with joy when papa returned home. Their hearts no longer swelled with excitement, and mama sacrificed hers for their child. Mama was sick.

I still remember papa’s face when the doctor announced mama’s miscarriage. He had a similar one when mama was told she would die after birthing his child. At least back then, he loved mama dearly and was pained to see mama’s stifled cries. But still, he didn’t want to be hurt. He didn’t want to bear the weight of her enclosed coffin, as well as the stillborn body of a child. Mama eventually accepted her fate, and she sacrificed everything for her last chance. Meanwhile, papa distanced himself from his wife, hoping to lessen the blow of reality. He often came home late with drowsy eyes and a drooped chin. 

Mama was now in a hospital gown with papa still drunk. He had sorrow in the back of his throat but never voiced it. The doctor came in, carrying the smell of fresh death, to deliver mama’s final gift to papa. Mama opened the legs and carefully followed the doctor’s words, tensing every muscle in her face due to the pain. Pearls of sweat arose from her reddened face and mixed with her desperate tears, but papa spilled none. At last, the baby was born and the room filled with the smell of both life and death. Papa slowly raised his gaze and fixed it onto the wailing baby, yet there was no joy. At last, his stern face shattered and the sorrow inside him spewed out uncontrollably. His mouth opened with lamenting cries and he too was glazed with tears.

Death crept up without a word and picked up mama. Her face was no longer scrunched, but smooth with the absence of life. Her soul emerged from her body like a butterfly opening its wings for the first time. She lingered above papa, gently kissing his face like how she wanted to do when she was alive. I waited for her, staring at my newborn sibling as she gave papa one last kiss on the forehead. “Mama,” I called. She stood in her nightgown, and embraced me with frail arms. Her stomach was now slimmed and her youthful spirit came back alive. She was no longer sick. We tangled our hands together and walked towards the new day.