Young Writers Society

“Ohh imagine you running around your house with one shoe on and half buttoned blouse because youre always late” Omar says, laughing “You’re kids are really gonna hate you for it”

My smile falters when he says that. “I don’t want kids”, I say slowly.

“You what?” he asks “You don’t want kids??”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Why”

“They’re a really big responsibility you know , I huge burden too. Hey just require a lot of attention it’s almost impossible to achieve anything.” I say, avoiding eye contact, “I don’t think I can let go of my dreams, even if it’s for a child”

He looks at me, cocks his head, contemplates, and then says “Yeah I get it. But after you achieve your goals and dreams and all that? What then?” he raises his eyebrows. I’m still avoiding eye contact. I open my mouth to change it but he beats me to it.

“There’s more to it isn’t there” he says softly

I look up to him, look down to my hand, clench and unclench my fist then raise my head and nod. Its taking a huge amount of effort no to get up and run.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, well aware of how uncomfortable I am

“I don’t know..” I sigh “It’s just very hard to open up when I’ve always kept it to myself”

He nods, and we stay silent for a while.

“I didn’t have the best relationship with my mother” I find myself saying suddenly.

He raises his head, looks at me, gives me an encouraging nod and a small smile

I don’t know why, but maybe because he’s my best friend, or maybe because I’ve been closed off for way too long that there’s so much pressure building up inside, but I don’t back away. “I had always been hated in some kind of way when I was young” I say, “The idea of being a mom never really appealed to me because of what I experienced”

I stare into my palms and take a deep breath “My mother was a bit hard on me. She kept our relationship very harsh and formal. She was more my commander than my friend, you know.

“She never laughed with me. She laughed at me, though.” I try to laugh but it comes out dry, “she always wanted to make it hard on me, controlling me down to my smallest actions. She also seemed to find particular amusement in making me a perfect follows-everything-she-says daughter. I think she wanted to turn me into a robot. I don’t mean controlling me in the basic things, although she didn’t leave those out either, but rather normal things. Always cursed me and called me a liar, or selfish, or nasty. She loved to embarrass me, too. In front of my sisters, my dad, my grandmother, my friends. Anyone I cared about really. She always prayed on my downfall. Like literally she would constantly pray that I lose, or fail my exams, or even die. Then she would deny saying anything, tell me I was accusing her of things she never did, and cry. And I always felt guilty for making her cry that I forgot anything that happened and went to comfort her. Not like she was ever comforted though. I always had to beg her to forgive me, and even then she would just dismiss me. She loved to be the victim. And she loved to make me herassailant. It was weird. She would always make me hear things I shouldn’t and tell me I’m the problem. Or she’d tell me ‘look I shouldn’t be saying this but you really have to know’ and then proceed to tell me how much I am a burden on her and dad. They got divorced once because she thought dad was keeping secrets from her and it became a fight that escalated quickly. Anyway. After a week from their divorce she started to tell me that it wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t there. That I just make her too stressed and that affects their relationship.” I can feel the tears coming and I blink several times. “I was affected by that for a long time, but then I became numb. Nothing she said or done really affected me. Or maybe it did, but I just always had this mask on that it became part of me. I realized that I may not be able to change her, but I can make her a bit less satisfied when I don’t give a reaction. It was a sort of small rebellion. But it was never enough. It still hurt. A lot.”

He puts his hand on mine and squeezes. I look up “Sometimes I would imagine myself with children. Talking to them and teaching them stuff. But then an image of mum would come to mind and I would just snap out of it. I don’t want to be like her. I just don’t want to do that to another person, you know”

“You won’t.” He says suddenly “You won’t. I know it. You aren’t her, Kenzy. You know how it feels like. You would never repeat the same things that happened to you.”

“But you don’t understand, Omar.” I say “I am so much like her. I am so much like her and it kills me. But it’s the truth” I start crying, not knowing how to hold back the tears anymore, “I see myself in her a lot. I won’t do it. I just won’t risk doing that to someone else. I can’t.” I’m sobbing now, chest heaving.

“You don’t understand.” He says, pulling my hands to grab my attention “You are not the same, Kenzy. She was abusing you!”

“She wasn’t abusive” I whisper

“No. You have to face it. She wa-“

“My mother was not abusive” is say louder this time, sharper.

He closes his eyes for a second “Okay. Maybe she wasn’t”

“I’m sorry, I just…” I weave my hands through my hair “She wasn’t Bad, Omar. She really wasn’t. In fact, she was a wonderful person.” He looks at me wearily, “I meant it. She was smart and lovely and caring and very responsible. Wonderful. Just not as wonderful at being a mom, I guess.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” He is looking at me sympathetically and I remember why I never told anyone.

“I don’t need your pity, Omar.” I say blinking back any tears and straightening my back.

TO BE CONTINUED……