Love and Obligation - Allah "Ali" Everett

         Our first language in the house was always shouting. Something coming off someone’s  chest from earlier in the day. Dinner turned into debate, then an argument. My mom pushed  everyone off the deep end. She picked out every possible flaw in your appearance, ability, and  self-perception to use against you, then began the next day as though nothing happened. I left as  soon as I turned eighteen. If I remained with her one more year I wouldn’t get to see the next.  

Still, this sense of obligation, not love, anchored me to her. I put distance between us, but  still kept a line open. This year she spoke of reunion, of bringing the family together to celebrate  what I achieved. Of course she’ll undercut me, talk of how she “raised me right.” Still, I figured I  owed her one last chance since she put food on the table all those years. Her text read we would  eat at 3 p.m., but the sun still reflected over the snow covered roofs when I pulled into the  driveway. Upon entering the house, she greeted me with a wide embrace, and a receipt appeared  in my hands.  

“Hey, Jonathan, love you!” She said, resting her hand on my bicep. My hair spiked at her  words.  

Looking at the grocery list, a list of chores for me to do were scribbled on. She never said  the L word unless there was something she needed from me. My mom directed me to the box of  old table decorations in the far corner of the room. The tablecloths, once a white floral pattern,  were now stained a slight yellow, mimicking an evening landscape. A few gnats fled the scene as  I lifted it to my face. It’s like the very home rotted when the youth left. The secondhand smoke  retreated into the fabric as the smell of turkey came barreling out the oven. Mom loomed over,  clasping her back, tears falling and steaming into the air.  

“God damn it!” Seems the theatrics started early, “no one ever helps me with shit!” I  wouldn’t defile myself trying to prove her wrong. 

Stains caked the table, encompassing all the colors of autumn. I degraded myself with the task of  cleaning. Afterward, I draped the linen over the blemishes, topping it off with a brilliant  silver candlestick. My mom could only huff at the display I created. Gratitude was not a  language spoken in this house. I plopped into a chair toward the end of the table, with sunlight  warming the back of my head. I leaned back and kicked my feet onto the table. At least my  winter break could begin. But my retirement was cut short by my own stupidity. I crossed the  point of no return and plummeted back. The wooden chair splattered across the floor. I survived  with only a few cuts. My mom barged in, fury welled up in her eyes.  

“Now you see where that stupid shit got you!” She hunched over me, spit flying out onto  my face. “I’ll get the broom.”  

I laid for a moment, stunned with embarrassment. My mom dropped a broom and dustpan  on me. I got up to clean, keeping my body slouched to avoid eye contact. She supervised me from the kitchen door frame.  

“Jonathan, you’re not sweeping right,” she pestered.  

While the mess on the floor is mine, she seems determined to make one out of our  relationship. I swirled the dust around in a circle just to agitate her.  

“Give me that! It’s a wonder you can wipe your own ass,” she began hurriedly sweeping  into the dustpan, leaving behind more than I did. Her voice suddenly became softer, “how’s  college?”  

Now came her pathetic excuse for bonding. My mood was soured now, she could get this  information from me when I let the rest of my family know during dinner. I guided my mother  through her maze of questions away from anything about myself. The first rule of vampires was  to never invite them in. The kitchen sprawled onto the table as she moved in the dishes, never  once breaking the stream of questions piling onto the floor. The crinkle of the aluminum synced  up with the cries of my stomach. The steam of mac and cheese wrapped around my face and  moved my lips.  

“Anything I can snack on while we wait?” I interrupted her—wrong move.  The pile of questions which trailed out her mouth ignited. The heat from the kitchen now  erupted in front of me.  

“What, you want me to make more?” She barked. “Come home and you already wanna  empty my fridge.”  

Being kind now was getting me nowhere. I left and grabbed a bag of chips from the  pantry in the kitchen. My mother scoffed and flipped me off.  

“Better make that count,” she grumbled. 

Though the cries had ceased I crunched on every chip. The clutter of the kitchen now  sprawled onto the table. My hands struck at the aluminum coverings, undressing the food before  me. I felt entitled to an early plate. My mother struck my hand. The wrinkles on her forehead  now pushed down like tidal waves. Her lips morphed into a box and her teeth were barred. She  shook her head, berating me with insults.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Jonathan? The rest of the family isn’t here yet. Are  you crazy? I never raised you like this. You‘re certainly not gonna starve. That’s so  disrespectful!” Her screeches rattled the floorboards.  

My face got hot and my teeth grinded together. My mother shook with anger, but she  didn’t dare approach me. I leaned into her, a smirk on my face hoping to test her. I got as far as  to feel the breath from her shouts on my face. A smack ran across my face. Shock ran through  her face for a second, before returning to her ugly snarl and berating me for coming so close.  Now I knew there was no point in staying. My hand jetted out of my pocket to the table, and  flipped the table into the air. Macaroni began to rain onto the ground.  

“Fuck you! I do everything for this family and you just ruin it!” She cried, tears trailed  down her face.  

I drafted several scripts in my head in case she started something with me. But the mess  of words, touching on every moment since birth didn’t matter anymore. Every word would be shot back at me. The job of being a normal mother for her meant I owed her my life. I offer no  dignification by justifying myself to her. I simply grabbed my shoes and left out the front door.  My mother opened the window, shouting, “I no longer have a son!” She continued to  rave and scream at me until I pulled out the driveway.