Redeemed (Dirty Air 4)

I’m sorry I didn’t show up for today’s session with the therapist, Chloe. I’ll come next week, I swear.

I’m sorry Ralph walked in while you were showering. You know how he forgets to knock on the door.

I’m sorry I missed Chri

stmas this year. I got tied up, but I’ll make it up to you next time.

Mom takes advantage of my distraction and rushes toward my purse. I grab onto the hem of her shirt to pull her back, and she spins around. The crack of her palm hitting the skin of my cheek echoes off the paint-peeled walls.

She actually fucking hit me. Me, a goddamned adult. I step back and press my palm against my stinging cheek. The rush of pumping blood fills my ears, making it hard to hear her.

Mom searches my purse like a woman possessed. She whimpers as she finds my wallet and snatches the bills in her bony fingers. Her greedy hands clutch onto more than three-hundred dollars, but I do nothing to stop her. I’m too stunned at the animal she reverts to when she doesn’t get her drugs. How does she stand looking at herself in the mirror? I’m surprised her skin doesn’t crawl off her body in a repulsive rebellion.

Mom drops my wallet on the floor. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I’ll pay you back one day, I promise.” She looks over at me with an empty stare, just like her words.

I hate myself for wishing she showed an ounce of pity about how she treats me. The hate molds into something dark and ugly inside of me. A toxic anger building up within, threatening to explode on her. “We’re done. Don’t ever bother coming back here. Do what you do best, and forget I exist. Forever.”

“You don’t mean that.” She has the audacity to frown.

“Get out of here!” I lunge toward her.

She scurries out of my apartment. The door shuts with a soft thud in her absence.

I turn toward the kitchen and search for a cold pack to soothe my burning cheek.

As I ice my face, it hits me that my mom didn’t even wish me a happy birthday. It was the whole reason she was supposed to stop by in the first place. The only stupid reason I invited her in years.

This is what I get for thinking with my heart rather than my head. Now I’m two cents away from being broke again because all my rent money is gone.

My mother brings nothing but destruction into my life, and this time it’s worse because it’s my fault. I believed her when she called and told me how she wanted to change. How she started attending a free rehab program because she was ready to be a better mother.

A fresh wave of sadness douses my anger. The first tear falls down my face, silent and mocking. I rush to erase it from my skin because I hate how pathetic I become when my mom enters the picture. I’m not that desperate child anymore, begging for Mommy’s attention.

The thought produces more tears instead of extinguishing them. Before I know it, my face becomes blotchy and my nose clogs. Refusing to give her betrayal any more of my attention, I redirect my energy.

While positivity keeps me going, perseverance is what gives me the courage to fight for another day. To move forward and start a new life for myself pursuing whatever makes me happy.

I grab my wish journal off my bedroom nightstand. The thick notebook is the one item I’ve kept with me over the years, following me through random foster homes. Every time I make a wish, I write it down. With a random pen, I scribble the first thing that comes to mind.

I wish to find someone who appreciates my presence instead of destroying it.

Brooke’s scowl makes the golden skin above her brows wrinkle. She grabs her thick brown hair and pulls it into a messy bun.

I cringe at the gesture. Brooke only does that if she’s upset or working on her latest project for school. She’s the type who doesn’t usually fuss over the waves she inherited from whichever unknown parent. And after everything that went down with my mom earlier, it’s hard not to envy Brooke right now not knowing who her parents are. It would save me a load of pain.

Okay, that’s shitty of me to say. I know how upset Brooke gets about her deadbeat parents. Not that I blame her. At least my mother had the decency to give birth to me. Brooke wasn’t as fortunate. She was ditched as a newborn on the cold steps of a Brooklyn fire station with a note written in Tagalog—the only hint we have about her Filipina heritage.

Brooke’s brandy-colored eyes assess my face. “Promise me you won’t see her anymore. She’s toxic.”

I lower my head. “I know. You were right. She wasn’t ready for a relationship with me after all.”

“I hate being right about this, but you deserve better than her. You always have and you always will.”

My lip quivers. “I promise to let her go this time. For real. Today was awful and not what I was hoping for. She’s always been verbal or neglectful, but she’s never gotten physical before. Lesson learned.” The words sound as pathetic leaving my mouth as they did in my head.

Here I am, officially twenty-four years old and still taking shit from my mom. I thought me aging out of the system would’ve pushed her to change. Like a hopeless fool, I expected something different from our relationship as I grew older.

“None of this is your fault. She took advantage of your hope, but it’s her loss.” Brooke tugs me in for a hug.