They say your mother's eyes are the first mirror you ever see.
If that's true, then somewhere along the way…
Mine shattered.
---
She used to look at me like I was something delicate.
I don't remember much from back then. Just fragments. Fuzzy sounds. Warmth on my forehead. The gentle rhythm of her humming as she cradled me.
> "Aka-chan, don't cry… Mama's here…"
It wasn't a lullaby written by a composer.
It was just her voice. Raw. Soft. Home.
Now, she won't even look me in the eye.
---
That morning, I walked into the kitchen.
She was pouring tea. The clink of the ceramic cup against the saucer felt sharper than it should've.
When I stepped in, she flinched.
A reflex.
Like a rabbit hearing a wolf's paw snap a twig.
---
Her hands trembled.
She didn't drop the cup. But I almost wished she had. At least then something would've acknowledged my presence.
But no. She placed it carefully on the table, adjusted the handle, and turned away.
Not a word.
Not a glance.
---
> "Good morning," I said.
Stupid. Hopeful. Weak.
She didn't reply.
---
I sat down across from her.
Two meters away.
Might as well have been two continents.
She sipped her tea. Eyes fixed on the table. Not on me.
Her fingers brushed against the newspaper. A headline about a celebrity scandal. She underlined something with her nail, like that mattered more than her son breathing in front of her.
---
I watched her, and for a second I wondered:
What does she see when she looks at me now?
A son?
A stain?
A mistake she regrets not fixing?
---
She used to sing when she cooked.
Used to hum when she folded laundry.
Used to run her fingers through my hair when I had fevers.
Now she locks her bedroom door at night.
And triple-checks it.
I know.
I've heard the clicks.
---
Once, I tried knocking.
I just wanted to talk.
No yelling. No drama. Just… a conversation.
She didn't answer.
The light under the door flicked off.
Like I didn't exist.
---
That morning, as she stood to leave the kitchen, our shoulders brushed. Just barely.
She froze.
And then moved away like she'd touched poison.
---
> "Mom."
She paused. Her back to me. Still not looking.
> "Do you think I did it?"
Silence.
The kind that wraps around your throat and tightens.
---
> "You were there when I came home that day. Bleeding. Barely able to walk. I—"
> "Yuuya."
Her voice cut through the air like cold glass.
> "I don't know what happened. I don't want to know."
---
She turned just enough for me to see one eye. Just one.
And it wasn't filled with anger.
It was worse.
It was pity.
Pity like I was a dying dog she couldn't put down.
Pity like I wasn't her son anymore—just a tragedy walking around in his skin.
> "I can't protect you."
> "And I'm tired of being afraid of you."
She walked away.
---
The front door closed behind her like a guillotine blade.
---
I sat alone. The tea still steaming.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then reached over and drank from her cup.
Just to feel closer to a version of her that no longer existed.
---
Back in my room, I lay on the floor.
The fan spun above me, making shadows on the ceiling.
My chest felt hollow.
Like something had been scooped out, and no one even bothered to stitch me shut.
---
I thought about when I was six.
She'd found me crying behind the shed. Some kids had teased me about my weight.
She didn't yell at me to toughen up.
She just sat beside me.
> "You have a soft heart, Yuuya. And that's not a bad thing."
> "The world might be mean, but you don't have to be."
I held onto that memory like a locket.
Now it felt like a cruel joke.
---
When did she stop seeing me?
Was it when I gained too much weight?
When my father started ignoring me?
When the teachers gave up?
Or was it now—after the accusations, the silence, the public shame?
Maybe she looked at me and saw a failure she couldn't fix.
A wound that never closed.
A name she didn't want attached to hers.
---
I cried.
Finally.
After everything, the tears came.
Not loud. Not messy.
Just silent drops falling sideways into my pillow.
I didn't sob. Didn't wail.
Because that kind of crying is for people with someone to hear it.
---
I texted her.
Just one message:
> "Do you still love me?"
It stayed on read.
---
Later that night, I walked into the hallway and paused at her door.
The lock clicked.
Not loudly.
But deliberately.
And just like that, a thousand lullabies died.
---
I returned to my grandfather's room.
The trap door glowed faintly.
Waiting.
Whispering.
> "Come away from this."
> "Become something else."
But I couldn't open it yet.
Not while the past still held me like a collar.
---
I sat there, holding one of Mom's old scarves.
It still smelled like her.
Laundry detergent.
Vanilla lotion.
I pressed it to my face.
> "Mom…"
I wasn't calling her.
I wasn't blaming her.
I just needed to say the word.
To remember it still existed in my mouth.
---
I think the worst part of all this isn't the accusations.
It's that the people who were supposed to love me first…
Don't love me at all.
Or if they do, they're too afraid of me to show it.
---
And maybe that's what breaks a person.
Not hate.
But absence.
The space where love used to be.
---
I curled up on the tatami floor and shut my eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to vanish.
Even if only for a moment.
---
> To be continued.