The Distance Between Staying and Leaving

The mornings all begin the same, and this morning is no different. The room feels too still, like even the air is tired, and before I’m fully awake, I can already feel the heat pressing against the walls and the smell of smoke that never really leaves the house. I stare up at the ceiling and then I sit up slowly, my neck cracking when I roll it, and for a second I just stay there, listening—to nothing and to anything.

The neighborhood is already awake, but Mom is still sleeping, so I push the windows open with both hands, while the hinges complain softly, to let out the lingering smell of cigarettes that seem to have settled into the curtains, the walls and even the fabric of the chair by the window. The air outside doesn’t exactly feel fresh—just less trapped.

Mr. Brown’s dog next door sounds energetic enough to go for a morning walk—probably irritated at how the world moves too slowly for its liking. It never seems to get tired. I hope it quiets down a bit, wouldn’t want all the noise waking Mom.

I’m a little hungry since I went to sleep without eating last night, but I’ll get something for myself and her too on my way out. There has been a power shortage for about a week now, so I had to throw out the milk carton and there’s no beef or bread in the house. My phone lights up—the alarm for 8:00 am disrupting the now growing silence.

A little stop by the bathroom to begin my day and my reflection catches in the mirror. I don’t like looking at it—my shaggy hair looks overgrown, little cuts I don’t remember getting, and the purplish spots on my body that refuse to fade. I pull on my black hoodie—the one the neighbors have seen on me for years—and black pants and then make my way to the kitchen.

Last winter, she came home sober for the first time in weeks with a crumpled slice of chocolate cake balanced carefully inside a paper box. “Happy birthday,” she had muttered, like the words embarrassed her. The frosting had melted on one side before she got home, but I ate every bite anyway.

The refrigerator creaks open, and my eyes dart around, hoping to find at least a box of cereal for the morning, but it’s empty. So I do what any person would do, and go down to the nearest convenience for groceries. The owner stares at me warily, like she has a lot to say but chooses to keep it in, and I’m grateful for that.

I pick up the things she likes the most: a pack of ham, a crate of eggs, a new carton of milk, and finally, bread. I pay for it and make my way out of the convenience store, away from the owner’s piercing gaze. They never say anything—not when I asked them to help me, not when I stole drinks from the back shelf, and especially not when my skin is discolored by her corrections.

On getting back, I drop the groceries by the counter and make my way to the room. Then, I shove the toothbrush, toothpaste, my phone, and the thin stack of papers into the bottom of the bag, zipping it shut before I could change my mind. My wallet feels kind of empty…but I can just work to fill it again. It doesn’t look like anything else is missing.

I leave my last paycheck somewhere she’d find it easily.

When I pick up my bag, it’s lighter than it should be—almost as if I’ve forgotten something very important, but I don’t stop to check.

It’s now or never.

I cast a lingering look at her on the bed sleeping, blissfully unaware of anything happening around her, and peaceful—like her world hadn’t ended when she gave birth to me, like she hadn’t suffered the disdainful looks people gave her for being a single mother, like last Tuesday hadn’t happened.

The door creaks shut behind me as my body begins to move further and further away from the rickety house I’ve lived in for a whole fifteen years of my life—not that I’m complaining.

The scar on my left wrist catches the sunlight for a second. I pull my sleeves down.

She hit me with the extension cord that time I forgot her cigarettes. I was eleven, but I remembered after that. Last Tuesday she threw the glass bottle at me. It missed, but just barely. I told Mr. Brown I had walked into a door; he most likely didn’t believe me with all the bruises on my face and body, but he said nothing. They never do.

Still.

She was having an awful week.

I should have remembered the cigarettes.

She didn’t mean for it to hit me; but then, that night she got a little carried away and forgot to stop, till I stopped moving. I was dismissed from the hospital almost a week later; she said it was my fault since I looked like him—the man who ruined her life. I probably shouldn’t have shouted back, I know better than that.

I’ve been working at the laundromat on the Fifth since I was thirteen. Mr. Henderson let me go two weeks ago—said business was slow, but I saw the way he looked at my face that day as he gave me my last paycheck. She takes most of it when she needs a drink, but last month she came home with a new pair of sneakers in my size. I still wear them.

Sometimes she remembered things—my birthday, the brand of cereal I liked when I was younger, the fact that I hated sleeping with the lights off after thunderstorms.

Those moments always felt bigger than they probably were.

I already know the time before I check it because the sun is sitting too high for it to be anything but afternoon. It should be a few blocks away by now.

My feet know this path—every crack in it and every corner. I’ve walked it a hundred times to buy her drinks, to get her cigarettes and to run whatever errand she remembers, at whatever hour she remembers it. I’m sure I left the fan on since it’s weirdly hot for a Thursday, but she might wake up from the heat.

I don’t look back. I already did that once.

When I reach the bus stop, I check the time, and it’s already 1:30 pm — the bus should be here in ten minutes. As the sun beats down on me, the scorching afternoon breeze wafts the scent of fried chicken towards me, and I look up at the fried chicken store opposite the bus stop.

And before I can rethink it, my feet have already carried themselves into the store. The smell of fried chicken and grease wraps around me, thick and warm—like home. I think of her waking up to an empty house and a cold stove. My hand goes to the space in my pocket where the bus fare was supposed to stay.

And soon I’m leaving the shop with a paper-bag of fried chicken and sauce, my feet already walking back down the familiar path towards my home. I let out an exasperated sigh.

It’s already lunchtime.

She might be hungry.

I place the paper bag on the counter when I enter the house, and then I crack eggs into the pan with practiced movements, watching the yolks break over the heat. The ham sizzles. The smell fills the kitchen as it always does. My eyes water from the heat, or maybe from something else, but I continue to make her meal.

When the meal is done, I cover the food with another plate and walk to Mom’s room, settling down on the chair by her bed. My eyes tear up again, and I don’t know what’s causing it this time since I’m not cooking—or maybe I do, but I won’t admit it.

I look down at her, breathing steady and sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of how she pulled me back from my brief escape. A dry chuckle escapes my lips as I run a hand down my face.

“I’m sorry for leaving, Mom.” I breathe out.

The words don’t feel like an apology. They feel like something I’ve said before — like I’ve been rehearsing leaving my whole life, even when I wasn’t.

And maybe she hears me, but she doesn’t say anything. The only answer is the steady, rhythmic pull of her breath. She doesn’t move. She just stays there, anchored in a peace she didn’t earn, while I sit in the dark and wait for the world to start again.