“Her biggest mistake was forgetting herself along the way,” I wrote in my journal. I glanced toward my door as I heard the wood floors in the hall squeak. I knew my mother was always suspicious of closed doors and would often barge in unannounced. And I knew she would not like the fact I had a journal. I watched her shadow pause just outside my door and I knew she was debating on whether or not she would come in.
The longer she waited, the more certain I became that she was not coming in. Usually, she barged in or she didn’t. After all these years she still had the illusion she was the ‘cool’ mom even though she was the one who would not let me read what I wanted, be friends with anyone who didn’t attend our church or stay out past nine o’clock. She was certain only terrible things happened to people who stayed out after nine. Apparently being a helicopter mom and running my life was the safe and secure way to ruin my life.
Being the youngest child had its privileges. I knew where all the hiding places in the house were and how many ‘illicit’ books and notebooks I could hide into each one. I never knew why my mother was so overbearing, just that I wasn’t going to have a part in it. That was until I found my mother’s hiding spot. And the newspaper clippings about what happened to her brother.