“That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard”

 

Is what my dad tells my mom when she says she wants to attend university at the age of 45. My father was never good at hiding his thoughts, nor was my mom good at hiding her emotions. She is holding back tears; the steam from the broccoli turning into shapes around her head, making it seem as if she is lost in the mist, disappearing into the woods further and further away from me. My father doesn’t like broccoli. He is very vocal about his displeasure. He says he doesn’t like waking up at 7. He says he doesn’t like working on the weekends. But most importantly, he says he doesn’t like coming home late at night only to find out my mother made broccoli. Now she is trying to type through her tears, ordering pizza for him. He is not satisfied. He can settle the discussion for now and lie on his favorite couch, but no.

 

“If you’re gonna go, at least study something useful”

 

My mother is the best cook I know. And the best painter. She is incredible with children. A good reader. A listener, an observer. She is empathetic. She cares about people, maybe more than anyone I know. She is disciplined and responsible. And smart, even though she does not feel like it. Maybe because me and my dad do not make her feel like it. 

 

She went to college for business. She normally wanted to study literature but money was more important, especially considering the fact she was the eldest sister and didn’t come from wealth.  My aunt is a nurse who is now suffering the consequences of a bad marriage. My uncle is also a nurse who has long night shifts at a factory and sleeps through the day. She has been worried about them her whole life and tries to protect them as much as she can. I laugh at my obliviousness for never realizing or appreciating the fact that she has other roles than being my mother. My grandparents never appeared strict to me, I only viewed them as soft elderly people who watch soap operas and solve crossword puzzles all day. But they are not. They were hard on my mother, maybe unintentionally, crushing her under responsibilities and turning her into someone whose priority is never herself. This is a moment of self-realization for me too. What kind of daughter am I? I don’t think I am the daughter she deserves. I am far from self-sacrificial. I am my father’s daughter. 

 

“Do you even know what her major is?”

 

I ask my dad, trying to make up for all the times I was a bad daughter to my mother. My mother wants to study something called “recreation management”. It focuses on human relations and organization skills, teaching how to programme special occasions, especially with children or older adults. Her dream is to help old people socialize and organize events for them, and my father believes this is nonsense. He doesn’t want her to serve other people, only himself. He wants an educated and intelligent woman, which my mother is, but only when her education doesn’t get in the way of his comfort. Right now, he simply doesn’t want to lose his housemaid. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t take the blame. He subtly condescends. Then denies it. And the thing that drives me crazy is that I am just like him.

 

I’m reminded of the curse of mothers and daughters. It goes like this: Often the father and the daughter look down on the mother together. They exchange meaningful glances when she misses a point. They agree that she is not bright as they are. This collusion does not save the daughter from the mother’s fate. 

 

The bell rings. Pizza delivery. My mother opens the door. My father eats. All is forgotten. He complains about work. She nods. He talks about his family. She nods. At moments like this, I don’t like her. I want to do everything in my power to escape that fate. 

 

They sleep in separate beds. Not because they hate each other, though. I don’t think they are in love but they are fond of each other. Although he might not be in love with my mother, he is in love with his work, thus the insomnia. Even the smallest sound can steal his sleep away, so he doesn’t want my mother to sleep with him. He takes the king's bed and she sleeps in the living room. His ego is like a black liquid injected in his veins, traveling through his bloodstream and finally reaching his mind, seizing the part of him that was once gentle and patient. He has gears and nails in his head. I wouldn’t be surprised if they cut his head in half and found machinery. Everything about him is so mechanical, so structured. He doesn’t like things he can’t measure, feelings being one of them. He is not cold, but his love is rather two-dimensional, felt on a physical, materialistic level. I doubt he will ever understand. Maybe the thing I am expecting him to understand is something only women can understand.

 

I peek through the living room door before I go to sleep. I imagine my mother as a baby, as a little girl, as a teenager who had dreams of her own. I look at the shape of her nose, one bone sticking out more than the other. I touch my own nose, following the same trail as hers. The curves of her ears, her almond eyes, her high apple cheekbones… In our worst moments, I despise her face because I see the same repulsiveness we share. But in moments like this, there is no one I would rather share a face with.