My dad's death hit my mom hard. She wasn't an alcoholic or anything like thatâshe was just... sad. All the time. At five years old, I didn't understand much, but I knew something was wrong. Mom tried to hide it, but she wasn't good at pretending. Sometimes, she'd cry out of nowhere, and it always made me sad to see her like that.
"Elizabeth," my mom called, shaking me gently out of my daze. I blinked and looked around. We were still in the hospital. I had a fever, which totally freaked my mom out. Maybe she thought it'd kill me, like Dad.
"Come on, honey, we're leaving," she said, standing up. She took a deep breath and exhaled before shaking Doctor Johnson's hand. "Thank you for your time," she said with a smile.
She always smiles outside. Maybe she doesn't want people to think she's weak. Or maybe she's trying to mimic her old smileâthe one she had when Dad was alive, when she was happy. If I didn't live with her, I'd probably believe it was real. It was beautiful, the kind of smile that made people feel warm.
Doctor Johnson even blushed a little as he shook her hand. How could he not see she wasn't okay? She'd lost so much weight, and the dark circles under her eyes couldn't be hidden, no matter how much makeup she used. But everyone just complimented her, saying how great she looked. It had only been a month. Did they really think she'd moved on?
The car ride home was quiet. Mom didn't turn on the radio, and I didn't ask. The silence wasn't awkward, though. It was just... there.
When we got home, I ran to my room and waited for her to call me for dinner. When she did, I asked her lots of questionsâabout anything, really. I just didn't want her to think too much. She always looked the saddest when she was thinking.
We watched a movie after dinner, then I took a bath and went to bed. I stared at the ceiling for hours, waiting. Then it startedâthe crying. I lay there, listening to my mom cry herself to sleep.