Mommy (Part 1)

Mom isn’t at home.

The truth is that I don’t care at all. When she arrives, she will forbid me to use television to watch cartoons, and she will take away the chocolates while she scolds me about childhood obesity and the terrible sugars that candies bring inside.

I hear a crack, I take the remote control and turn off the television. I undo the bed and get inside it, listening intently, waiting for Mom’s visit to say good night and give me a kiss. However, nothing happens.

I turn around and look through the darkness.

I can see through the door locksmith that the lights have not been turned on, so I would most likely have confused myself because of the squeaking of a door or the sound of a cat with the arrival of Mom.

Maybe nothing made that noise. Maybe the only thing that happened was the indulge in auto-suggestion, my own suggestion about my mother’s arrival. The truth is that in a way I fear it. She’s not the kind of woman someone would like to discuss with. I never argued with her, now that I think about it. I simply kept quiet, listening to my mother’s reproaches while focusing on the music on the radio.

The Radetzky March.

Once I got into a fight with a class girl and my mother came to pick me up, the Radetzky March was being played on the radio. It does not matter, but I always liked that song. It hurt that I had to turn that song into a terrible and austere moment. So I asked her to shut up.

Only for a moment. I did not explain why, but she associated it with a display of disobedience. The truth is that I have never disappointed her enough so she would look at me the way she did that day.

We should not fear our parents. But many times we have no choice. They are the ones that infuse us with fear.

That night I wasn’t afraid at all, even taking into account what would happen a few hours later.

I was not afraid because no one scolded me for anything.

I felt free for once.

I have never been free.

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