When my mother, at 55, finally spoke of divorce, My father roared, "Then be gone!" My brother sneered, "Ungrateful old woman!" I stepped through the scattered chaos, grabbed her hand, and said, "Mom, I'm taking you home." 1 I walked into a living room brimming with people. My father, my brother, my sister-in-law Brittany, and what seemed like every single one of Brittany's relatives. My mother was alone in the kitchen, silently washing dishes. Seeing me, Dad stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, his voice grating with impatience. "Go on, talk some sense into your foolish mother. Your in-laws are staying with us, what's she kicking up a fuss for?" I scanned the crowded room. "Why are they staying here?" Brittany's mother, Sharon Jenkins, offered a saccharine smile. "Brittany's grandma is in the hospital, stroke. Needs constant care. And wouldn't you know, our place is so much farther from Metropolitan General…" Before she could finish, my brother Kevin cut her off. "Enough, Mom, why are you explaining anything to an outsider?" He turned to me, his lip curling. "Don't know what bug Mom's got up her butt. Asking for a divorce at her age? Embarrassing." "My Mom?" I scoffed, a cold laugh escaping me. "Were you born under a rock? No mother at all?" "You…" Kevin spluttered, caught off guard by my retort. Brittany jumped in, playing peacemaker. "Mia, your brother just spoke without thinking. We asked you to come back to talk to Mom. This fuss she's making isn't good for anyone." "Fine. I'll talk to her." I strode directly into the kitchen, picked up the stack of unwashed dishes my mother was about to tackle, and with a resounding crash, I slammed them down on the living room floor. 2 Even as a child, two things became clear to me. I was the least favored person in my family, and my mother was the one who toiled the most. When we visited my grandparents, I was never allowed to eat at the main table. After my mother had painstakingly cooked and served all the food, Grandpa would always feign politeness, saying, "Ellie, there's not enough room. You take little Amelia to the kitchen to eat." I was named Amelia when I was born. My mother, who hadn't had much schooling, later thought the name was too common. She secretly took me to the county office to change it. When the clerk asked her what she wanted to change it to, all she could think of was "Mia." She said I deserved to be cherished and loved by everyone. So, I became Mia Hayes. Eating in the kitchen was actually a delight, because my mother would always secretly save me a few pieces of meat. While the big family feasted raucously outside, my mother and I would share our quiet, warm meal in the kitchen. My grades were always excellent in school. But when I was in ninth grade, my father wouldn't let me continue. He said he had connections to get me a factory job, where I could earn at least fifteen hundred a month. I could send a thousand home each month, and with the family's savings, they could buy my brother a house in the city, helping him get married. My mother refused. Father beat her for it, but she wouldn't budge. With a bruised and swollen face, she went to my homeroom teacher, begging for a few more days, promising she would find a way to pay my tuition. She went to a construction site, hauling bricks for pennies a piece, working day and night until her fingers were raw and bleeding. Finally, she scraped together enough for my tuition. The day she paid for my schooling, she was brutally beaten by my father again. 3 To take my mother away from that house, I poured all my energy into studying. After getting into a top university, I never stopped urging her to divorce him. But back then, my brother was getting ready to marry. My mother said her children were both "flesh and blood," and she had to stay to help him with the wedding arrangements. That’s just the kind of person my mother was. She was endlessly loving and nurturing to everyone else, but utterly clueless about loving herself. After Brittany moved in, she took advantage of my father and brother's backing to blatantly exploit my mother. Every meal had to have at least four different dishes, or else Mom wasn't "taking her seriously." If someone in Brittany's family got sick, my mother had to make nourishing soups daily and visit them, or else she wasn't "taking her seriously." My mother had to hand-wash Brittany’s intimate clothing every day, or else she wasn't "taking her seriously." My brother had no objections to any of this. In fact, he felt my mother should be even more attentive. My father also saw no problem. He felt incredibly proud when entertaining his in-laws. Both father and son were obsessed with appearances. So, when I smashed that stack of dishes in the living room, their faces turned purple with rage. "Mia Hayes, what the hell are you doing, making a scene like that?" My brother looked ready to charge me, but his mother-in-law held him back. I smiled, a cold, sharp edge to my lips. "I’m 'talking to' my mother. She's divorcing, so there's no need for her to cook and clean for you leeches anymore. Even a dog, fed a few times, knows to wag its tail. You lot are less human than a canine." At my words, the faces in the living room shifted, turning ugly. Brittany, in particular, tore off all pretenses and began to shriek at me. My mother, hearing the commotion, rushed in from the kitchen. The moment my father saw her, he unleashed a torrent of curses. "Eleanor, look at what kind of monster you raised!" My mother, gentle by nature, had never cursed anyone in her life. Her lips trembled, but for a long moment, no words of rebuttal came out. In the end, she simply whispered, "Frankie, I told you. I want a divorce." My father’s voice climbed higher. "Then pack your bags right now! If you want to leave, damn it, then leave! You think I'm giving you a choice?" The others in the living room made a few half-hearted attempts to mediate. I wanted to retort, but my mother gently patted my hand, shaking her head. I reluctantly followed her into the bedroom. Just before I closed the door, I heard my brother snarl, "Two ungrateful bitches." 4 I’d been on a business trip in New York City recently. Work had been hectic, and I hadn’t kept much in touch with my family. As my mom packed her things, I pieced together the approximate story from the scene outside and her fragmented whispers. Brittany's grandmother had been hospitalized with a brain hemorrhage at Metropolitan General. Under the guise of taking care of the elderly, Brittany’s parents, Sharon and Gary Jenkins, and her younger brother, Kyle, had all moved into our house. They claimed to be looking after the patient, but in reality, it was my mother who brought the patient's meals, fed her, emptied her bedpan, and even bathed her. Besides caring for the patient, my mother also had to cook for the entire extended family at home. Brittany insisted that since her parents rarely visited, they had to be well-fed for every single meal. On top of all this, my mother had to look after Brittany’s brother, Kyle. He’d tripped and fallen, complaining of pain all over. My thick-headed brother, eager to curry favor with his in-laws, stupidly boasted that he’d once fallen as a child and my mother had massaged him every night, helping him recover quickly. At their collective insistence, my mother had to spend half an hour every night massaging Kyle’s aching body. My mother said these things didn’t bother her much. "Who cares for whom?" she'd say. "As long as the family is together and happy." What truly broke her heart was when she fell ill recently, so sick she couldn't get out of bed. She asked my brother to drive her to the hospital, but he said he had to take Brittany and her family out sightseeing. He told my mother to just lie in bed and, if she felt better, to go visit Brittany's grandma at the hospital. They all fit perfectly into one car, along with my father. They stayed out all day and didn't come back. My mother lay in bed for a full day. She hadn't eaten anything. In the end, she had to call 911 herself. The paramedics asked the building manager to unlock the door, then took my mother to the hospital in an ambulance. When my father and brother returned, they heard the news from the neighbors. Then they went to the hospital and yelled at my mother. My father said my mother was just being dramatic, calling 911 for such a minor thing, costing money and making them look like a joke. My brother said my mother had gotten sick at the worst possible time; Brittany's grandma was already ill, and now there was one more person to take care of. Brittany herself claimed my mother must have been jealous that my brother took them out, so she’d gotten herself sick out of spite, saying my mother was too petty. Hearing this, I trembled with fury. My mother was incredibly frugal. She would endure pain rather than take medicine, only going to a small clinic for something if she truly couldn't bear it anymore. How much pain must she have been in to call 911 herself? I looked at my mother’s small, bony back, subtly wiping away the tears that streamed down my face. They wouldn’t stop. My mother said Brittany, afraid of catching something, had left the hospital room after only a few minutes, dragging everyone else with her. An elderly woman in the same hospital room, seeing my mother's plight, specifically asked her family to bring extra food and shared half with my mother. It was then that my mother realized that, in my father and brother's eyes, she was worth less than a stranger. It was then that she finally conceived the idea of divorce. 5 My mother's belongings were few. After toiling for this family for half a lifetime, everything she owned fit into a single duffel bag. As my mother carried her bag out of the room, my sister-in-law's mother, Sharon Jenkins, came over, feigning concern, and tried to snatch the bag from her hand. "Oh, dear! My dear in-law, what are you doing?" she wailed. "It's all our fault! We shouldn't have moved in and caused all this trouble between you two. Oh, what a terrible sin we’ve committed!" Brittany's mother, a large, beefy woman, barely tugged at my mother's bag twice before letting out an "ouch!" and clutching her back, claiming she’d twisted it. Brittany's father, Gary Jenkins, lunged forward, pushing my mother toward the wall, but I stepped in, blocking him. My father and brother stood by, hands in pockets, watching the spectacle. As if the person being bullied wasn't his wife and his own mother. My mother didn't spare a glance for anyone else in the house. I shielded her, guiding her directly toward the front door. As my mother was changing her shoes, my father finally spoke. "Eleanor, if you walk out that door today, our family disowns both you and your daughter!" "Disown us then! Who cares?" I couldn’t hold back the seething anger any longer, unleashing it on everyone in the room. I pointed at my father. "You're nothing but a coward who only acts tough at home, selfish and self-serving. You can't even speak up in front of strangers, but you're a bully to my mother." I pointed at my brother. "You're a spineless leech, always turning your back on your own family, with no backbone of your own. All you do is grovel and flatter your wife’s family, you pathetic excuse for a man." I pointed at Brittany. "Every meal can't have less than four dishes? Did you never eat at home? Did you come to my house begging for food?" I pointed at Sharon Jenkins. "Your mother's sick, and you expect my mother to make her soup, sit by her bedside, and clean her? Is your whole family dead?" I pointed at Kyle. "You fell and hurt yourself, and you want my mother to massage your back? What, did you break your legs and become a cripple?" And finally, I pointed at Gary Jenkins. "And you! My mother cooked and cared for you, and you still had the nerve to push her? You heartless bastard!" "Mia Hayes, you wanna fight, you little B-word?" My brother rolled up his sleeves, ready to lunge. I pulled out the small fruit knife I’d hidden in my pocket, my voice chillingly calm. "Try me, if you’re not afraid to die." "Mia, have you lost your mind?" Brittany quickly pulled my brother back. I swept my gaze across everyone in the room. "I’ll have a lawyer draft the divorce papers and send them over. From now on, whether you live or die, it has nothing to do with my mother or me!" With that, I picked up my mother’s duffel bag with one hand and pulled her out the door with the other. "Mom, I'm taking you home." 6 Last year, I bought a small two-bedroom apartment, telling no one. After my mom put her few things away, she still looked shaken. "Mia, why did you pull out that knife? What if you’d hurt yourself? Don't be so foolish next time." I sat beside her, gently putting my arm around her. "Because I was determined to take you away, Mom. Just like that year after I graduated high school, when you took a knife and dragged me away from the old place." When I got my college acceptance letter, my grandparents, uncharacteristically, invited us back to the old homestead for a gathering. They said it was to celebrate my getting into college. But when we arrived, it was clearly a trap. My grandparents had heard from others that once a girl went to college, she was like a kite with a broken string—she'd never come back. This made them, who had always planned to use my "settlement" to subsidize their precious grandson, extremely anxious. They conspired with my father and brother. They found a family in the village with similar standing, accepted a significant payment from them for my hand, and planned a meal to serve as the "wedding feast." Then, they'd let the man take me away to make sure the deed was done, and the marriage would be irreversible. Sensing something was terribly wrong, I kicked over the table and ran. But I was outnumbered and caught. The man's mother, seeing my fierce spirit, urged him to take me home immediately and "finish things." They stuffed my mouth with a rag and bound me tightly with rope. The man lifted me onto his shoulder, walking step by agonizing step toward his house. Just as I despaired, wishing for death, my mother, who had been locked in the woodshed, burst out from somewhere, brandishing a kitchen knife. Her hair was disheveled, and she swung the knife wildly at anyone who came near, single-handedly rescuing me. "I'd like to see who dares touch my daughter! If you're not afraid to die, come closer!" she screamed. "My daughter is capable, and she's going to college! If you dare ruin her, I'll fight you to the death!" That year, despite being malnourished, I had grown to five feet seven inches. My mother was barely five feet two. Years of constant labor had reduced her to skin and bones. But in that moment, I saw her as monumental. More monumental than the sky or the earth. My grandparents threatened suicide, hanging and drowning, to force her hand. My mother's resolve remained unshaken. She called the police. My father and that man were held for two weeks. My mother, fearing they'd plot against me again, gave me every penny she had. "My girl," she'd said, "your mother is useless. Take this money, go far away, and don't ever come back." I begged her to come with me, but she steadfastly refused. At first, I resented her for her apparent ignorance. Later, I realized she wasn't ignorant. She was simply trapped by her generation's beliefs. She had been taught from childhood that men were everything, that women were born to serve men, that a woman must bear sons to continue the family line. She hadn't received a proper education, hadn't seen the grand, vibrant world outside. But her love for me gave her the courage to defy every principle she'd been taught. 7 The day after my mother moved into my apartment, my uncle called her. He chided her for being irresponsible at her age, for abandoning the family and living luxuriously with her "ungrateful" daughter. "Ellie, how can you be such a mother? Frankie and your nephew don't know how to cook. Are you trying to starve them?" he scolded. "A man is the most important, a man is someone you can truly rely on. How long do you think you can stay with Mia? She'll get married eventually, she'll become someone else's family. In the end, you'll just slink back!" "Listen to your brother, go back and apologize to the family, and this whole thing will blow over. What kind of scene are you making?" My mother sat on the sofa, clutching her phone, looking helpless. She tried to explain the whole story to my uncle. On the other end of the line, my uncle scoffed, "Oh, what's the big deal? Your in-laws rarely visit, your nephew had to entertain them properly. And honestly, when else could you get sick but then? Whose fault is that?" "If your nephew keeps his wife happy, and she gives the Hayes family a big, healthy grandson, it'll bring so much honor to your family name!" My mother's eyes dimmed, a flicker of hope dying within them.
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