Chapter 6
The police arrived and sealed off the balcony. They started collecting evidence and questioning everyone inside.
Mom looked hollow, her voice flat and her eyes empty as she answered their questions. I drifted above it all, watching it
play out.
“I made her kneel out on the balcony. I locked the door.”
“It was eight degrees out, and she was wearing a thin sweater.”
“I was going to let her back in after dinner, after everyone left.”
She grew paler with each word. When they asked why she’d done it, she didn’t answer for a long time. When she finally
spoke, her voice sounded raw.
“She left early and made me look bad. I wanted to teach her a lesson.”
The officer taking notes glanced up, unreadable. She hesitated, then wrote it down anyway.
They questioned the relatives next. What came out was suffocating.
A mother who beat and humiliated her daughter in public year after year, all so she could look fair. A daughter who
spent twenty years playing her mother’s game, right up until it killed her.
It was clear. They arrested Mom for abuse and manslaughter.
When they cuffed her, she didn’t resist. She only looked back toward the living room. A white sheet covered my body, but
my old duffel bags still lay scattered across the floor where I’d dropped them. One had split open, spilling out a couple
threadbare shirts.
She spoke then, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was sleepwalking.
“Officer, can I… can I get something of Florence’s? From her room. I just need…”
The older officer watched her a moment, then nodded.
“We’ll go with you. Make it quick.”
I followed her back into the house. The living room was cold, the mess still untouched They let her go to my room.
My room was small and too neat. It looked more like a showroom than somewhere anyone actually lived
Mom’s steps wobbled as she walked in. She reached out and trailed her fingers over my desk, then the carefully folded blanket on my bed. That was when she noticed the pink envelope tucked under my pillow, a corner peeking out.
She pointed at it, her hand shaking. The officer hesitated, checked the envelope for anything suspicious, and then handed it to her. The envelope said. (To Mom–Merry Christmas Love, Florence)
I’d meant to give it to her on Christmas morning. Mom’s tears came all at once. splashing onto the envelope and
Chapter 6
smearing the ink. She sank to the floor, her back against the bed. With trembling fingers, she tore the envelope open
and pulled out several pages, covered in my handwriting.
The pages were covered in my handwriting. Some lines were careful and neat, others rushed and messy. In places, the
ink had run where tears had fallen. I’d written it over weeks, maybe even months.
[Dear Mom.
I’m writing this on December 23rd. My project wrapped up today. I know I should feel relieved, but the thought of going
home fills me with more dread than this empty dorm ever did.
But I’m going anyway, because it’s home. Because you’re there.
Even though you punish me and humiliate me in front of everyone, even though you give away the things I earned to
anyone but me, I still want to come home. I have nowhere else to go..
Sometimes I wondered if I was adopted. How else could I explain why you were kind to everyone except me?
But then I remember what you were like before Dad died. You used to braid my hair. When I was sick, you’d stay up all
night beside my bed. You’d hold me when storms hit and whisper, “Don’t be afraid, Florence.” You were so gentle then.
I know raising me on your own was hard. I know you wanted me to succeed, to prove we didn’t need anyone to pity us. So
I worked myself to the bone, trying to make you proud. But nothing I did was ever enough.
Second place meant, “Why not first?” First meant, “Don’t get cocky.” An award meant, “They just felt sorry for you.”
I’m so tired, Mom. I feel like I’ve been running a race that never ends. Every time I reach the finish line, you move it
further away.
Sometimes I hate you. I hate that you treat me this way. I hate that you don’t trust me. I hate that I’m just a prop in
your act of being a good mother.
But even when I hate you, I still love you. You’re my mother. You’re all the family I have.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’m going home. I don’t know what’s waiting for me. Another humiliation in front of the
family? Some new punishment you’ve thought up?
I’m still going. Because maybe, just maybe, this Christmas you’ll smile when you see me. Maybe you’ll hug me the way
you used to and say, “Welcome home, Florence.” Even if it’s just once.
Love always, Florence (I guess I’ll never send this.)]
