I love her, I truly do. I know she feels the same way, but, would a loving mother really treat her own daughter this way? Of course she would, she only wants me to succeed. And I know she only wants the best for me, however her so-called motivational ways only make me unmotivated; Lack of motivation and the fear of failure is not the greatest combination.
“Mariam.”
I am pulled from my thoughts hearing my mother’s voice from downstairs. Moving from my untouched homework, I make my way to duty.
“Clean the kitchen and start that homework of yours that I know you haven’t touched.” She doesn’t even look at me.
With a nod she can sense, I do what I am told. I have grown out of the “talking back” stage. I know there’s no point. But, not having a release only builds it up. Half way through the dishes, Omar appears with dishes in one hand, phone in the other. I only sigh as he sets them down next to the sink, not sparing a glance away from his phone. You’d think being the oldest, he’d know how to clean his own dishes, or maybe put the brain eating device down. I begrudgingly finish the dishes and make my way back to my room.
I’m in front of the void of papers once again. I need to do this, there is no other option. I make a start before a quick, familiar knock on the door interrupts. After the approval to enter, Malik’s face suddenly lights the previously dull room. He has this shine about him, maybe that’s what being the youngest child does to you. I can’t help but smile.
“Hey Mar, are you busy?” He jumps onto my perfectly made bed.
“If you consider the homework demanding my attention busy, then yes.” I gesture to the pile behind me.
“I know you don’t see law in your future, Mariam. Just tell Mum.” He rolls over, lying back. I give him a look. It’s not that easy.
“I have to see law in my future, Malik. She knows what’s truly best for me.” I turn away, fiddling with my necklace.
“That’s what you think Mar but, come on, do you know what’s best for you?” He waits expectantly, and I stay silent. He sighs, “Well, I saw something you might like.” He hands me his phone from his pocket. It’s an art competition. I skim over the theme and description; Reflections, literal or metaphorical reflections on identity, society, or self. I stare at the website with longing.
“...I can’t.” I hand the phone back to him, turning my attention back to the work in front of me. He only sighs, getting off my not so perfect bed anymore, leaving me to my lonesome.
I wish I could.
~~~
“Mariam, do the dishes.”
I could paint a girl staring into the mirror but instead of seeing herself, she sees her mother. Just a thought.
I wash the dishes.
~~~
“Mariam, sweep and mop the floor.”
Or maybe, instead of seeing her mother, she sees the version of herself that her mother wants her to be.
I sweep and mop the floor.
~~~
“Mariam, do the laundry.”
How about a girl wearing a mask of perfection in her mother’s eyes. And it could slowly be slipping off her face, showing the unhappy girl beneath.
I do the laundry.
~~~
“Malik, Habibi, come relax.”
My eyes roll.
~~~
“Mariam, clean the bathrooms.”
The mirror could be cracked and broken, each shard showing the versions of herself people want her to be. The biggest one being her mother’s’.
I clean the bathrooms.
~~~
“Omar, come watch some TV with me.”
I scoff.
~~~
“Mariam, go study.”
The girl could be tired.
I’m so tired.
~~~
“Mariam, 82%? Really? I expect better from you.” She sighs with utter disappointment.
“Mum, what do you mean? It’s the second highest mark in the class.” I try to reason.
“Not the highest? What, are you not studying enough? School is not a joke, Mariam.” She shakes her head at me. She cannot be serious right now.
I scoff and before I can stop myself, “Well, if I wasn’t the only person in this house doing chores, maybe I’d actually have time to study.”
She stares wide-eyed at me.
“How dare you speak to me like that.,”
I come back to my senses and retreat a step. Unwelcome tears come to my eyes, stinging like the words rolling off her tongue.
“How could I have raised such a disrespectful girl.,” Disbelief present in her tone., “Get out of my face, I cannot bear to look at you, girl.” She waves me off.
My lip trembles and I run back to my room. I curl under my blankets. And I cry. I cry until there are no tears left to cry. A thought comes to mind.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and bring up the very thing I have been avoiding. The art competition stares back at me. My red, puffy eyes straining to read the prompt that’s been plaguing my mind. I could do it…I can do it… I will do it.
I get up before the reasonable side of my brain, the side that only exists to please my mother, can convince me otherwise. I walk over to my closet and uncover the dusty container of my younger self’s prized possessions:; my art supplies.
With a sniffle, I bring the large container to my desk, shove the pile of papers occupying it, and finally let go. I find myself feeling lighter with each brush stroke, my mind feeling clearer with every colour I layer, my heart feeling fuller with each component of the art work coming together.
~~~
I could win this, I reassure myself before pressing the daunting submit button. Maybe if I come out on top of this competition, my mother might consider letting go of the whole lawyer idea for a little bit. She could finally realise that maybe my talents lie outside of law and maybe a bit more in art…
Who am I kidding, this is my mother I’m talking about.