Chapter 1 - Mom

It has always been like this. Mom has always been in bed. For as long as I can remember, her world has been confined to this room. My father, on the other hand, watched over her, dedicating his days to caring for her, speaking to her gently, and preparing large meals for her. I was there, yet somehow apart. I learned to fend for myself because I was strictly forbidden to open that door. She was in bed, day after day, to the extent that sometimes, I struggled to recall what she looked like standing.
Yet, even when she was there, it wasn't a relief. My mother, in every rare venture out of bed, was mean and harsh with me. Her words were like sharp blades, and her glances, icy. It was as if her weight had taken not only her physical health but also her love and kindness, leaving me alone with a desperate father and a distant, cold mother.
She was in bed, missing birthdays, family gatherings, and all special occasions. Those significant days turned into solitary moments, my father awkwardly attempting to compensate for her absence. I learned to pretend the routine, to quietly celebrate in private to avoid accentuating my mother's absence. However, even when she deigned to get up, those rare moments were haunted by her meanness. Her words were sharp blades cutting through my heart. Her presence only sowed discord and spread an icy chill throughout the house. It was as if each moment with her was a stark reminder of the cruelty of her situation, leaving me alone with a maternal figure both present and absent, but never kind or loving.

For years, my mother was incredibly difficult to satisfy. Nothing seemed to appease her. Her condition required constant care and relentless attention. My father was her primary support, taking care of her day and night, tending to her most basic needs, and attempting to provide some semblance of comfort despite her relentless illness. He had to continually find ways to feed her, care for her, and attend to every demand, no matter how demanding, even if it meant sacrificing his own needs and well-being to do so.

As I grew up, I had to take on more responsibilities, helping my father take care of her. However, it was still a difficult burden to bear because even as I grew older, her meanness didn't diminish.

"You're useless, you never do anything right! Feed me now stupid thing!" she repeated incessantly.

Every task done for her was met with acerbic words and constant reproach. Even if I tried to assist, it never seemed to be enough. Her attitude was a heavy emotional burden to bear, adding to the sorrow of witnessing her health decline and her behavior grow increasingly bitter. One day, exhausted by the constant reproaches and emotional pain, I stopped helping. It was hard to witness my father bear the burden alone of taking care of her, but it seemed healthier for my own emotional well-being to withdraw from this toxic situation. My withdrawal left my father alone to face the unending task of caring for my mother. He was now the sole dedicated caretaker, juggling fatigue and anxiety, alone in this battle against my mother's illness. It was a challenging time where I felt torn between the need to protect my emotional well-being and the guilt of not being there to assist my father.

At 17, my mother continued to scream that she was hungry, blaming my father. Relentlessly, she repeated that it was he who had made her this way, accusing him of neglect, cruelty, and all sorts of wrongdoings. Her screams echoed throughout the house, creating an atmosphere of constant tension. My father desperately tried to feed her, to calm her, but he was helpless against her distress and ceaseless accusations. The situation had become an endless nightmare. For me, it was impossible to know if it was truly my father who had made her that way. All I could perceive was my mother's continuous meanness. Her repeated accusations seemed to echo in the air, but I couldn't confirm the truth of her claims. All I saw was the suffering of my dedicated and exhausted father, striving to take care of her despite her constant reproaches. Guilt and sadness pervaded our home, creating a heart-wrenching and unbearable atmosphere.

A year later, on my 18th birthday, I made a difficult decision. I decided to leave home. Living in an environment so steeped in pain and tension had become unbearable. Leaving my home was a necessary step to preserve my own mental and emotional well-being. It was a painful choice, leaving my father behind, but it was vital for my own emotional survival. After all, I hadn't seen my mother for fees years because I hadn't opened the door. The memories that came to mind were constant criticisms toward me. Remarks about my appearance, my life, my choices, all laden with disdain. Memories of maternal support, a moment of affection, seemed to have evaporated. I couldn't recall a single good moment, just a succession of reproaches and emotional pain. Every memory of my mother was tinged with negativity, each interaction poisoned by her hurtful words. Her physical absence only highlighted the lack of human warmth in our relationship. The scars left by her words still echoed within me, leaving behind a painful and indelible imprint.

My father, on the other hand, was madly in love with her. He devoted all his energy, his entire life to taking care of her. Despite the fatigue and the overwhelming weight of the situation, he seemed to find a certain happiness in his dedication to her. For him, it was a given, a duty of love and loyalty to the woman he adored, despite the weight that had transformed her. I didn't understand, unable to grasp how he could remain so devoted, so invested in a relationship that seemed devoid of human warmth. How could he stay, exhausted yet content in caring for her, while I, faced with that same situation, only felt pain, sadness, and confusion.

And at 20, as my father had dedicated his life to taking care of her, he passed away. Mom was in bed, as usual, when it happened. The loss of my father was a heart-wrenching shock, leaving a huge void in my life. He had given so much for her, and it was as if his mission to protect and watch over her defined him entirely. In his will, my father expressed his wish for me to take care of her. It was a heavy emotional burden, knowing that his last wish was for me to continue looking after my mother, despite all the difficulties I had experienced until then. It was as if, even after his death, his devotion to her was to continue through me. Out of respect for my father and his wish, I returned home. It was the first time since I was 16 that I entered my mother's room. Confronting the reality of the situation, entering this space filled with painful and sad memories, was an emotionally challenging ordeal. Facing my mother again after all these years was both a duty and a difficult trial to endure.

I opened the door. And as I expected, there she was, my mother in bed. Nothing had changed since the last time I crossed that threshold. Nothing had changed except her. Her fixed gaze appeared both distant and penetrating, as if a part of her was aware of my return, although her condition did not reflect it. Confronting this scene I had avoided for years rekindled a myriad of painful and conflicting emotions within me. The room was dark, almost frozen in time, the light struggling to pierce through the drawn curtains. And in the midst of this darkness, I turned to her, unsure of her reaction, and I said in a trembling voice, "Mom?"

She opened her eyes, and despite the darkness, I could sense her gaze fixed on me. With a weak voice tinged with biting irony, she retorted, "My son deigns to see and talk to me, what an honor."

Mom's body was large, bloated, and misshapen. The sheets of her bed strained to contain her, but they still bulged and rippled with each movement. Her features were a mass of wrinkles and rolls, her skin mottled and yellowing. Her face was framed with rolls and sag, her skin mottled by the ravages of years spent in bed. Yet, despite her size, her eyes were still as sharp as ever, even with all the weight, her eyes still shone with a cruel brilliance as they bored into me, their sharp gaze tearing through any pretense of affection or humanity. It was as if I was face to face with a monstrous, hateful creature.