She Loved Her Mother

See the mother, age 64. See her daughter, age 30. They live alone on the fourth floor in the center of Antwerp, just five minutes away from the monumental Cathedral of Our Lady. An apartment of yellowed wallpaper and smoke-stained walls. Only the mother leaves the apartment occasionally. The daughter stays indoors, shuffling—sometimes billowing—through rooms. She is light as a feather; no weight she wears makes her presence known. The daughter works at home, and her labor is ceaseless.

Today is a special day: the mother’s birthday. A lot of work goes into expressing love toward her mother. These days, she has plenty of time and a dire need for distraction. The daughter—always proud of her ability to remember, to take note, and to know what her loved ones desire—made sure to pore over the internet in search of luxuries. She is dependent on deliveries because the outside is much too loud, too many things can happen, and she doesn’t have the strength to pay attention to all the possible threats. The age of 1-day deliveries allows her to remain hidden and safe at home, although sometimes even the doors of the apartment don’t seem sturdy or reliable enough. It’s manageable thanks to a trick she’s learned from her mother. When she was still a small girl, her mother used to place a chair to halt the door to the apartment so that any intruders would find it more difficult to break in. That trick could also be applied to the door of her own room or to the bedroom door where her mother slept. There is always another layer of security she could rely on.

            The gifts she’d picked out for her mother—a woman of considerable sophistication, wisdom, and taste—were a mixture to dazzle and complement her senses: a selection of delicacies from Greece, Italy, and Turkey; an expensive kitchen appliance she’d once overheard her mother appreciating; a set of satin bedsheets; and the most complex of fragrances. Each item and package managed to arrive on time. The delivery people would mostly leave the parcels downstairs at the lobby and not go up the elevator to leave them by the apartment door. The daughter was not sure whether it was for the best. In a feat of bravery, she collected herself to sneak downstairs and retrieve the parcels each time the buzzer rang to notify her of an arrival. With each parcel, her excitement grew. She was sure of her own tastes and her ability to match her mother’s. Though some days, during their occasional conversations, her mother reminded her that she still had a lot to learn. It had been the mother’s habit to catch instances of ignorance in her daughter and instill in her shame—a fuel to amend any such lack in intelligence and knowledge. How could you not know that? You really didn’t know that? At your age? A doubt crept up her spine. Were the olives she’d chosen of a lower quality? Could the cheese not be to her liking? Was the fragrance designed by a discredited Nose? No, she’s done her homework. She knows the value of the gifts she’d chosen. Nobody labors like her. Her excitement came bubbling up anew.

            Her mother finally came back from the city with bags chock-full of groceries—items bought cheaply and frugally, ones that would expire sometime between now and the next two days. She always had a knack for making the most out of life in the wisest, most economical way. The daughter could not help but look up to her, despite all. Her mother took care of her, imparted wisdom onto her, kept her safe, and asked her for almost nothing but to sometimes eat and drink. The chores of the apartment were almost all exclusively her mother’s domain—a domain she kept to herself alone, much to the daughter’s relief. The daughter was not asked to go shop for groceries, go to the laundromat, go to the bank, or to clean, or to do anything that the mother knew how to do better and more efficiently. The daughter felt loved and protected, and in return, she expressed the same in whatever way she could.

            As her mother unpacked the bags and spoke aloud from the kitchen, listing the items and suggesting dinner. The daughter sat anxiously in the living room with the gifts prepared nearby. The mother then spoke of her day as if not really expecting a reply. She’d grown used to her daughter’s usual reticence and usage of silence. The mother then appeared from the kitchen. The daughter stood up from the couch and ran in for a hug. She embraced her dear mother tightly, kissed her on her dry cheek, and uttered a quick Happy Birthday. Her mother laughed and dismissed the occasion before being led to the living room’s coffee table to survey the gifts the daughter had prepared. She groaned at the sight of more than one package. The daughter turned into a professional presenter as she explained each gift, its origin, and its significance. It was paramount that the mother knew that these were not mere trifles. The delicacies were accepted without a hitch, even with excitement. The fragrance elicited a sigh of pleasure. The reveal of the satin bedsheets and the kitchen appliance was the moment the daughter realized her mistake. Her mother admired and knew how to enjoy luxury up to a point. Her face turned frustrated—almost hurt. She asked for the prices, then cringed at the revelation.

It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped. The daughter’s sweater suddenly felt insufficient. We don’t need this; it’s too expensive. We already have everything we need in the kitchen. Return it. The daughter’s enthused presentation stopped. Her tongue vanished in her mouth. Her soft, brown eyes turned black. The mother’s voice grew harder as she stood back up to take the delicacies to the kitchen. They’d taste them another time. The air left the apartment by a window left cracked open. In the vacuum, the daughter soundlessly retreated to her room, closed the door, and collapsed into bed. The fragile distraction of the day crumbled. Somewhere in the corner of the darkened room lay a wicker basket holding within it compact, compressed pain. Even hidden, it radiated suffering. She had to get rid of it. The whole room was doused in the memories that emanated from it, the apartment—more so than any lingering cigarette smoke. Her voice—one meant for angelic singing and mellifluous laughter—crumbled into desolate sobs in her blankets, pillows, and the plush rabbits she somehow kept out of the basket. The materials of sleep soaked in her pain. She’d forgotten all about the birthday and the gifts she miscalculated. Her cries seeped through the door and the walls, despite her attempts to muffle any sound, and summoned what came next.

The closed door to her room opened with a harsh sound. Why didn’t I prop a chair up to prevent intruders? The words her mother then shot into the darkness of the room were not new. No one could endure it like she did. Her mother’s words were meant for her alone. She loves her mother despite them.

If you’re so sad, why don’t you just—

She loves her mother.