16 | Stuck In Park

JUEVES

3:50 PM

Dahlia Gray

Josie and Hannah met with me this morning to warn me about the dinner, and how it's been postponed since Hannah's mother had to go on an urgent business trip. The dinner has been moved to a separate date—still undeclared—but they'll keep me posted if anything happens.

It was good, I guess. It was supposed to be tomorrow and I still haven't gotten the chance to tell my father about it.

I pull out my earbuds the moment I step foot into the house, closing the door behind me with caution. I slip out of my shoes, wrapping the white strings around my phone case as I end the music with a pause.

I know my father isn't home right now—he works a ten to seven shift—and it was for the better. I didn't want to see him. He still hasn't fixed the outlet in my room and I've come to the conclusion of YouTube as my replacement for a father.

We haven't talked since that day.

I pick up the eerily silence of the house and figure my mother has taken a break from cooking and is upstairs in her bedroom. I ascend up the spiral staircase and drop my backpack in the front of my door before moving in the direction of my mother's room.

I wanted to tell her about the good news, of how I'm going to accept the internship—which starts in two weeks—but the moment I open the door, instead of bursting in with excitement and a grin plaster to my lips—everything dropped when I'm met with my mother's weeping figure.

"Mami!" I exclaim, climbing onto the bed as I reach my mother sitting on the edge of the mattress. She lays back against the bedframe, the comforter wrapped around her small frame, and tears streaming down her face with bloodshot eyes. "¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasa?" What's happened? What's wrong?

My mother sniffs her nose, but doesn't say anything, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. I maneuver over her fragile body, grabbing a tissue from the box and dabbing it against her skin. I watch as she tries to conceal her sadness with a soft smile. "Estoy bien." I'm fine.

"No, no lo estás." No, you're not. I say, examining her. Her black hair clipped back with a few loose strands framing her face, her skin looking gauntly under the light. I cup her chin, raising her gaze to meet mine. I repeat. "¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasa?" What's happened? What's wrong?

She stares into my brown eyes and her blue eyes begin to grow cloudy. She had to force herself from my touch, looking away. I pull back my hand, my brows scrunch in confusion. "No puedo," I can't, she chokes, "te pareces mucho a tu padre." You look so much about your father.

A small fire ignites in my chest, fueled with the knowledge that her source of pain was coming from him. I clench my jaw, trying my hardest not to project my frustration onto my mother. She doesn't deserve any of this.

"Mami," I mumble quietly, scooting closer to her as I wrap my arms around her frame. "No tienes que llorar." You don't have to cry.

She lets out a forced laugh, as if she was trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't work. I hold my mother closer, squeezing her tightly—hoping that I could take all of her sadness away.

I feel my mother's hand slip from under the comforter, and touch the base of my head, stroking my dark roots. "Siento que todo es mi culpa." I feel like everything is my fault.

My chest tightens as I hold her. I shake my head, wordlessly telling her that it isn't her fault. It's never her fault. It's my father.

I don't know the cause of her tears but I could give a couple of guesses on how they came to be. The first thought popped through my head was how my father always mistreats my mother, how he always tells her that she's worthless and doesn't contribute anything to the house. The only thing she's good for is cooking.

That argument happened three days ago.

Or, another one I conspire, is the lack of attention he pays towards her. When my mother tries to bring awareness to the situation—suggest some new ideas—he snaps at her and deems her foolish. Because she never received a formal education like him. Because she didn't graduate highschool, she didn't get the chance to go to college. He did.

But it always ties back down to the same mistreatment he displays for her, the lack of respect he gives and the amount of narcissism he elevates himself on. He has this sole belief—so countlessly displayed—that he was the alpha dominator, the patriarch of the house, the one who controls right and wrong and he's never wrong.

There's things that make me hate him, things he's done to me—but nothing is worse, and nothing is harder to forgive than the way he treats my mother.

My mother inhales a sharp breath, her fingers still stroking my hair tenderly. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she looks beyond, not meeting my gaze. "Siento que soy un fracaso." I feel like I'm a failure, she whispers. "Siempre es mi culpa. Siempre hay tensión en la casa y siento que—" It's always my fault. There's always tension in the house and I feel like—

"No, mami," I shake my head, refusing to allow this thought to marinate. "No es tu culpa, es de él." It's not your fault, it's his.

She doesn't respond, but she doesn't look like she believes me. Her full lips were pulled tightly together, and she uses the back of her free hand to wipe oncoming tears.

"No le gusta la forma en que te crié." He doesn't like the way I raised you, my mother said after a cold silence. She stares off, her voice cracking, "Él siempre me culpa. Él siempre dice que es tu actitud. Todo lo que sale mal en esta casa, es mi culpa." He always blames me. He always says it's your attitude. Everything that goes wrong in this house, is my fault.

She's crying again.

Her features contort and she had to force herself to look away, wiping down the tears quickly. She shakes her head, like she doesn't want to believe a single word that exits from her lips, but it's hard not to listen to something you hear everyday. To summit.

In that moment, emotions surge through my body like tides hitting rocks. I feel a wave of sadness and anger crashing into my ribcage, and combined with my own incident that happened with my father a couple of days ago—I feel resentment. It builds up, like water rising to the surface, and I feel hatred. I feel angry.

"No puede hablar, mami," he can't talk, mom. I raise my head off her chest, forcing her to meet my gaze. "El nunca me crió." He never raised me.

The words stung, and it instantly sobers her emotions.

"Dahlia Gray," my mother says sharply, cracking at my last name. She wanted to do the traditional two last names, as in most Latin culture, but my father refused. "Él es tu padre." He is your father.

I shake my head, resentment building in my lungs with each breath. My eyes blazing as they stare at her, "Él no estuvo mientras crecía." He wasn't in my childhood.

My mother's face contorts, like the words causes her pain, and she shakes her head. "Estaba sirviendo al país, Dahlia." He was serving the country, Dahlia. She responds quickly, her blue eyes meeting mine with tender defense. "No puedes culparlo por eso." You can't blame him for that.

I know I can't.

But it's the easy way to go.

When he came home—it wasn't the same.

"No es solo eso," It's not just that, I proclaim. "No me gusta cómo te trata, mami." I don't like the way he treats you, mom. I declare with spite running through my tongue. "Él viene sin aviso. Él viene aquí y exige un cambio, y lo quiere a su manera, sin compromiso. Él toma las decisiones en la casa, menosprecia tu juicio y—no te respeta." He comes into our life with no announcements. He comes here and demands change, and he wants it his way, no compromise. He makes the decisions in the house, he belittles your judgment and—he doesn't respect you.

"Dahlia," my mother warns sharply, but I refuse to budge. She always shuts me down when I talk about my father, and she always refuses to see it from my side. She looks at him through rose-colored glasses, and I'm tired of her seeing the red flags as ordinary signs. "No digas eso, él es tu padre." Don't say that, he's your father.

I shake my head, backing away from my mother and losing her touch. I meet the end of the bed, reaching the floor and slipping onto the ground. I don't leave—I'm not done with this—and I turn to her.

I force her to look at me, to view me as the eighteen-year-old girl she raised from birth. To see the damage—not what he did to her, but what he did to me.

It's mental, it's exhausting, and I'm so tired.

"¡Él no te ama, mami!" He doesn't love you!

The atmosphere fell silent. Her parted lips fell down to a frown, and everything she holds in her body collapses. She stares at me—like I just told her that abuela died—and she shakes her head.

"Eres demasiado estadounidense." You're too American. She comes to decide, using the same counterargument since he came home. "No entiendes la cultura—" You don't understand the culture—

"¡No eres feliz, mami!" You're not happy! I declare, my anger bursting at the seams. "Siempre estás deprimida, frustrada y siempre te sientes como un pedazo de mierda. ¡Es por él!" You're always depressed, you're frustrated, and you're always feel like a piece of shit. It's because of him!

"Dahlia!" My mother snaps, her eyes meeting me with a fierce gaze. She warned me to back down, to stop the conversation from reaching its heat. "Para." Stop.

I stare at her—truly stare at her—and I found myself feeling frustration for her. I never imagined leaving, not once when it was just the two of us, but it's harder to stay.

"Tu padre, se equivoca mucho." Your father, he messes up a lot. She begins, "pero no es su culpa. Estuvo en la guerra y ha visto cosas que ninguna de nosotras puede imaginar, y tiene estrés postraumático. No solo eso, fue descuidado de niño, nunca fue educado correctamente. Él está haciendo lo mejor que puede." But it's not his fault. He was at war, and he's seen things none of us could ever imagine, and he's has PTSD. Not only that, he was neglected as a child—never raised right. He's trying his best.

I couldn't find myself arguing a counterclaim, because how would you respond to that? I couldn't think of a valid excuse that could contradict her whole argument, and in that process, I remain silent.

"Pero aun así no eres feliz." But you're still not happy. I say, looking down at her with soft eyes. "No eres feliz y no puedes negar eso." You're not happy, and you can't deny that.

She looks at me with vulnerability, and she simply shrugs. "Es el destino," It's fate, she declares with a shrug. "Algunas personas están destinadas a vivir de esta manera. Así es como Dios trabaja." Some people are meant to live this way. It's just how God works.

I shake my head. I don't believe that. "Dios no sería tan cruel." God wouldn't be that cruel.

She offers a small smile. "Dios tiene un plan para mí. Dios sabe lo que está haciendo. Esta es mi vida, y la viviré de acuerdo a cómo Dios quería que fuera." God has a plan for me. God knows what he's doing. This is my life, and I'll live it according to how God wanted me to be.

I don't agree.

But I don't say anything.

"Sabes, podrías dejarlo si quisieras. Podrías y no me molestaría por ello." You know, you could leave him if you wanted to. You could and I wouldn't resent you for it. I say, deciding to ease the conversation away from a theoretical god. I don't believe in a higher power—because why dedicate your faith into something told through oral stories and a sense of spirit? "Podrías dejarlo si eres infeliz." You could leave him if you're unhappy.

She shakes her head, like the thought itself was a repulsive consideration. "No conoces la cultura venezolana," You don't know Venezuelan culture, she declares with stubbornness. "No dejamos a nuestros maridos así. Nos quedamos y tratamos de resolverlo. No nos rendimos como lo hacen los estadounidenses." We don't leave our husbands like that. We stay and try and work it out. We don't give up like Americans do.

I feel myself clenching my jaw, but I can't say anything in return. I felt defeated, and stuck with the conclusion that this is how life is going to be. I can't change it, I can't do anything about it. As much as I love my mother, there's some battles you have to fight alone.

So, I steer myself away. I don't want to talk about my father anymore and neither does she. I want to change her mind and I want her to consider what's best for her—and not what's said in culture—but it's hard. She's not listening, and I think that's my cue to end.

"Sabes que te amo, ¿verdad?" You know I love you, right? I say gently, watching as her features begin to relax and fall similar to mine. "Solo digo esto porque te amo." I'm only saying this because I love you.

"Lo sé." I know.

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AVA'S NOTES

hey! sorry, i'm taking a lot time to publish. my editor has a lot of personal things she has to deal with, so this is my first run with editing and proofreading myself. tell me how i did?

please vote and comment!!