That night, I finished dinner with my mom like always. Same routine. Same food. Same silence between bites. She didn't say much during the meal. Just stared at her plate mostly, pushing rice around. I asked if she was okay. She said yes. I knew she was lying. But what was I supposed to do? Argue with her about her own feelings?
I took my plate to the sink, washed it, put it away. Then I went up to the rooftop.
The rooftop is my place. My spot. When things get too loud downstairs, when her voice starts bouncing off the walls, I go up. The stars were out that night. Full sky. The kind of sky that's supposed to make you feel small but in a good way. Like your problems don't matter because the universe is huge. Except that night it didn't work. The stars just sat there, watching, doing nothing.
I sat on the concrete. Lit a cigarette even though I quit last month. Or tried to. The smoke went up and disappeared into all that black. I stared at nothing for a while. Ten minutes maybe. Twenty. Time moves different up there.
Then I heard her.
She was talking to herself again. I could hear it through the window, even from the rooftop. Her voice carries. Always has. Not loud, just sharp. Like glass breaking somewhere you can't see.
She does this thing where she repeats old conversations. Arguments from years ago. Things my father said. Things his mother said. She'll be in the kitchen making tea and suddenly she's arguing with someone who isn't there, someone who left a long time ago. Or she's just cursing. Random words. Bad words. Words I never heard her say when I was a kid.
I sat there listening and something happened inside me. I don't know how to explain it. It wasn't a thought. It wasn't even a feeling. It was like my chest caved in slowly. Like someone was pushing on my ribs from the inside. And then the tears came.
I wasn't sobbing. I wasn't making noise. Just tears running down my face while I sat there on the concrete with a cigarette burning in my hand.
Because seeing your mom like that? It's like someone taking knives and just throwing them at your heart. Not stabbing. Throwing. One after another. You can't block them all. You just stand there and take it and hope the next one misses.
She wasn't always like this. I remember her from before. Before my father left. Before his family did whatever they did to her. I was too young to understand what happened exactly. Just pieces. Arguments. Doors slamming. My grandmother's voice on the phone saying things that made my mom cry for hours. My father standing there doing nothing. Then one day he wasn't standing there anymore. Just gone. And his family? They acted like she was the problem. Like she drove him away. Like she wasn't good enough for their son.
What a load of crap.
I sat on that rooftop and I made a promise. Not to God. Not to anyone listening. Just to myself. I'm going to do everything I can. Every single thing. Work. Study. Struggle. Fail. Try again. Whatever it takes. So that one day, maybe, she can live in peace. In happiness. In a house where she doesn't have to talk to herself because no one else is listening.
And then I cried more. Because even as I made that promise, I knew it might not happen. I knew life doesn't care about promises. I knew she might be like this forever. And I knew that even if I succeed, even if I get rich, even if I buy her a house on the beach somewhere, the damage is already done. His family already did what they did. You can't undo that. You can't fix that with money or success or a better life.
You just sit on a rooftop at night and cry and hope.
I stayed up there until my cigarette burned my fingers. I flicked it into the darkness and watched the orange spark fall. Then I went back downstairs. She was asleep on the couch, the TV still on. Some old movie. Black and white. I turned it off and covered her with a blanket.
She opened her eyes for a second. Looked at me. Smiled a little. "You're a good boy," she said. Then she closed her eyes again.
I stood there for a minute. Then I went to my room and lay in bed staring at the ceiling until the sun came up.
That was months ago. I still go to the rooftop. She still talks to herself. I still make promises. Nothing's really changed. But I meant what I said that night. I'm going to do my best. Maybe that's all anyone can do.
Maybe one day she'll be happy.
Maybe one day I will too.