She Loves Her Mother

See the mother, age sixty-four. See her daughter, age thirty. They live on the fourth floor in the center of Antwerp, five minutes from the monotowered Cathedral of Our Lady. The fallen father is imprisoned and unforgiven. He is visited by the mother only.

The apartment is marked by yellowed wallpaper, smoke-stained furniture. The mother leaves the apartment sporadically. The daughter stays indoors, shuffling—sometimes billowing—through rooms, for she is light as a feather; no weight she wears can ground her. She works at home, and her labour is ceaseless.

Today is special: the mother’s birthday. A lot of labour goes into expressing love toward her mother. These days, the daughter has plenty of time and a dire need for distraction. The daughter—always proud of her ability to remember, to take note, and to know what her loved ones desire—made sure to pore over the internet in search of luxuries. She is dependent on deliveries because the outside is, quite frankly, terrifying—too many horrid things can happen, and she doesn’t have the strength to stay on guard against all these possibilities.

The age of same-day-deliveries allows the daughter to remain hidden and safe at home, although sometimes even the doors of the apartment do not seem to be sturdy or reliable enough. It’s manageable thanks to a trick she’s learned from her mother, in early days of childhood. She used to prop up a chair; a barricade against the door to the apartment, so that any intruders would find it more difficult to force their way in. That way, the family would suffer no violence, no unspeakable acts. The same method could also be applied to the door of the daughter’s own room, she came to learn, or to the bedroom door where her mother slept. There is always another layer of security to rely on. But then, how is it possible to lock a door from a father who’d come and go freely and be of the world of intruders?

The gifts the daughter picked out for her mother—a woman of considerable sophistication, wisdom, and taste—were a mixture to dazzle and complement her preferences: delicacies from Greece, Italy and Turkey, an expensive kitchen appliance she’d once overheard her mother appreciating, a set of satin bed sheets, and the most complex of fragrances. Luxuries reminiscent of the family’s days in Paris; days of plenty buoyed up by ill-gotten gains.

Each item and package arrived on time. Delivery people would leave the parcels downstairs in the lobby, rather than going up the elevator to leave them by the apartment door. So, in a feat of bravery, the daughter collected herself to sneak downstairs and retrieve the parcels each time the buzzer rang. With each parcel her excitement grew, for she was sure of her tastes, her ability to match her mother’s sensibilities. That, despite how on some days, during their occasional conversations, her mother reminds her that she still has a lot to learn, that she knows embarrassingly little. It had been the mother’s habit to catch instances of ignorance in the daughter and instil in her shame—a corrective fire. How could you not know that? You really didn’t know that? At your age? How is that possible?

Doubts crept up the daughter’s spine: Were the olives she’d chosen of a lower quality? Could the cheese be not to Mother’s liking? Was the fragrance designed by a discredited Nose? No; she’s done her homework. She knows the value of the gifts she’d chosen. Nobody labours like her. Her excitement broke through, anew.

Her mother finally came back from the city with bags chock full of groceries—items bought cheaply and frugally, ones that would expire sometime between now and the next two days. The mother always had a knack for making the most out of life, in the wisest, most economical way. The daughter could not help but look up to her, despite all, and woe to those who spoke ill of her.

The mother always took care of the daughter, imparted knowledge onto her, had her safety in mind. Maintenance of the apartment was almost exclusively the mother’s domain—a result of love and distrust in equal measure. The daughter was not asked to shop for groceries, go to the laundromat, or the bank, or to do anything the mother knew how to do better, more efficiently. By these graces, the daughter felt loved and protected, and in turn, she expressed the same however she could.

As the mother unpacked the bags and spoke aloud from the kitchen, listing the items and suggesting dinner, the daughter sat anxiously in the living room with the gifts prepared on the coffee table. The mother then spoke of her day, not really expecting a reply—she’d grown used to her daughter’s reticence, silences. The mother then emerged from the kitchen. The daughter got up from the couch, going in for a hug. She embraced her dear mother, kissed her on her sere cheek, uttered a fast happy birthday. The mother laughed and dismissed the occasion before being led to the coffee table for the inspection of the gifts. She groaned at the sight of more than one package, though the daughter already began to extol each gift, its origin, and significance. It was paramount that the mother knew that these were not mere trifles. The delicacies were accepted without a hitch, even with a hint of excitement. The fragrance elicited a sigh of pleasure. Though it was during the reveal of the satin bed sheets and the kitchen appliance that the daughter realized her mistake. The mother admired and knew how to enjoy luxury up to a point and not an inch beyond. The daughter watched as her mother’s face turned frustrated—almost hurt. Then came the questions about prices, the wince following the answers.

It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped, and the daughter’s sweater suddenly felt insufficient. We don’t need this; it’s too expensive. We already have everything we need in the kitchen. Return it. Why did you waste money on it?

The daughter’s tongue vanished in her mouth as her gentle brown eyes turned black. The mother’s voice grew harsh as she rushed to store away the delicacies in the kitchen. The air seemed to escape the apartment by a window left cracked open. In the vacuum the daughter soundlessly retreated to her room, closed the door, and collapsed into bed, the fragile distraction of the day crumbling away. Somewhere in the corner of the darkened room lay a wicker basket holding within compact, tightly compressed pain. Though hidden it radiated loss. She must get rid of it. The room entire, even without the wicker, is doused in the memories, more so than all the lingering cigarette smoke. The daughter’s voice—one meant for angelic singing and mellifluous laughter—broke into sobs into blankets, pillows and the plush rabbits she somehow managed to keep out of the wicker containment. She’d forgotten all about birthdays and miscalculated gifts, her cries reaching out through the door, the walls, despite attempts at muffling the sound. This way she inadvertently summoned what came next.

The shut door to the daughter’s room flew open. I forgot to prop up a chair. The words her mother then shot into the darkness were not new. No one could endure them the way the daughter did. She loves her mother despite them, fiercely. Woe to those—

If you’re so sad, why don’t you just—

She loves her mother.