Chocolate Covered by a Steel Wrapper

“You know, I think I’m like chocolate with the filling inside,” my mother stated as she stopped at the red light and put on her signal. My eyebrows raised up a notch.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I’m hard on the outside, but soft on the inside.” I laughed a little at the thought.

            No mom, you’re like steel. You’re tough through and through.

            “It’s true!” My mother pouted, as she turned left on green. I just shook my head.

            It was Friday, the twenty fifth of May and my older sister, Christine, came back home from college the other day. It was after school, and I was fervently writing the typical lines people would use for a birthday card for my friend’s party that I was going to attend.

I was sitting in the dining room that was across from the stairs and next to the kitchen. I heard plates clinking and the water running, so I knew my mother was washing the dishes because no one else in the house would. I heard the ceiling creak slightly, so I knew my sister was out of bed because her room was right above of me. The house was silent, as tranquil as a battlefield before a war starts. While I was writing ‘Happy Birthday Priscilla’, my older sister came downstairs in her worn-out cozy-looking pajamas. She mumbled a greeting to me before she entered the kitchen. My sister and my mother started to talk each other, but the conversation was mostly muffled. In the midst of their discussion, my older asked my mother for a favor.

“Mom since Mike is coming over, can his roommate come with him and stay over?” As soon as the words rolled off her tongue, the kitchen turned into a scream fest. This was the fourth argument they’ve had since my sister came back home the other day. I was sick and tired of their fighting, so I just blocked my ears from their screeching noises with my hands.

I looked at the time on my cell-phone and stared at the clock with wide eyes. I only had five minutes before the party started.

            “Mom, we have to go! We have to leave right now!” I yelled loudly. I ran to the front door. The door swooshed as I opened it, and the lock from the door made a loud click sound when I closed it. I waited outside of the door for a couple of seconds. I got impatient, so I opened the door again.

            “Why are you yelling at me? I just asked you to…” I shut the door. I counted ten seconds, and then opened the door.

            “I don’t know this guy! How could you have asked me to…?” Click… Swoosh.

            “I didn’t expect you to say yes, I just wanted you to…” Click… Swoosh.

            “I can’t talk about this right now. I have to drop off Joyce to the party. We’ll talk later when I get back.” My mother coolly slid past me and walked towards her silver Acura car. I glanced at my older sister and noticed that she was a total wreck. Her face was covered with red blotches, tears were running, and snot was dripping down. She shot me a look before stomping up the stairs to her room.

            During the car ride, my mother and I did not utter one word to each other. I thought that this was best because at that moment my mother was a ticking time bomb. If I were to say anything she would implode all of her angers and frustrations out on me. The only time I opened my mouth was when we arrived to thank her for the ride.

            At the party, I had fun, but I was distracted. Even when I talked about last year’s social studies class to my friends, when I complimented Brittany’s mermaid-like hair color, when I watched Meet the Fockers with my friends, when we decided that Meet the Fockers was too inappropriate and watched a different movie, or when we went to the park and showed off our exquisite cartwheel techniques, I was still thinking about my sister and my mother.

            Why must they argue? Why can’t they just get along? Don’t they realize they affect the whole house when they argue? Why must mom always be this unbendable steel?

            Before I realized, the clock struck 5 o’clock. Honestly, at the time, I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to have to go through listening to their endless bickering. I was much happier at my friend’s house, surrounded with people who laughed and smiled at me. Nevertheless, my mother pulled up to the curb and honked her horn. I coated my face with smiles, so that mother wouldn’t see me with an unhappy expression. I said my goodbyes to my friends, got into the car, and closed the door.

            The car ride was silent. Again. When we pulled up to the driveway of my house, I looked at my mom and I felt compelled to complain about what was going on.

            “Mom, why are you arguing with Christine? Did you have to yell? Didn’t you see that she was hurt? She was crying!” Mom whipped her head towards me angrily. Her fiery hair bounced behind her; the curls in her hair bobbed angrily.

            “And you don’t think that I get hurt too when I argue with one of you?” I was stunned. I couldn’t even speak; the only thing I did was have my thoughts running around my head.

No, I always thought that all you felt was anger.

“As a mommy, don’t you think that I want to cry too when one of my daughters cry?”

But you never show any of your tears. You only show your steel-like scolding face. I took a breath.

“Still, I think you should apologize to her, mom.”

“Why must I apologize. Why is it always me being the bad one? Why is it always my fault?” My mother collapsed into sobs. Her hands plastered onto her face and her shoulders were quaking. Her unsteady breaths sounded wheezy and tired.

Did my mother always look this fragile? Was she always this delicate, sensitive woman? Why didn’t I ever realize that behind her scolding face was a heartbroken one?

My chest tightened, my hands shook, my eyebrows scrunched together, and my throat felt closed up. Worst of all, my heart hurt. I felt and understood the intensity of my mother’s pain and it hurt me so much to see her feel this way.

 I stared as she furiously wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She glimpsed at me and smirked.

“Why are you crying?”

I quickly felt my cheeks and they were wet.

“It’s because you’re crying.” I dabbed my tears with my sleeve. My mom smiled, and then, that smile turned into a laugh. She helped me mop up my tears. Before we left the car, she hugged me and whispered ‘Thank you’ into my ear.