It was just another June day. It was the late afternoon, after I had come home from school. It was merely days until my high school graduation. I don’t remember what I was doing precisely, other than I was probably writing or reading.
My father was at work. She was my responsibility. I think that was how I felt, on the inside, that everything was my fault. I felt like a complete bystander, but I was forced to be because there was nothing I could do. There was nothing I can say to make it better.
Mother made dinner over the stove, but she forgot to add the milk. Our family meal was ruined. I think she might have gone outside to smoke, but again, nothing is completely clear. My memory suppressed most of what happened this day, but I do remember what happened through my visual memory.
She paused in the kitchen. I asked her why. She began to cry. I kept asking her how she felt, but she continued to sob. Her face was pink, turning a darker shade of rose. Panic struck and stabbed me in the gut. She didn’t reply.