My aunt likes to dye her hair a dark cherry red. I don’t remember her much before her hair had the reminiscent glow of the sour cherry balls my dad would place on the keys of the piano as I practiced, the vague clicking that grew with each vibration of a chord motivating me as the amount of sugary red sweetness ahead increased in both volume and quantity. She likes to layer her clothes, an exhausting mess of zippers and buttons to undo every night, prepared for a winter storm in August. She keeps a collection of shiny confetti scraps in any shape imaginable, all sprinkled like a pinch of pixie dust in each envelope she seals; I wonder if she ever heard talk that even licking an envelope seal has calories, that the sticky glue whose burnt taste stains your tongue is now an option in the calorie tracking apps she didn’t have as a teenager. My aunt, the woman whose presence I’ve grown to dread, the woman whose need for control makes her company draining, the woman who I now see reflected in my mother’s eyes when they lie on mine.

The familiar tune of my dad’s fingers orchestrating Rachmaninoff reverberated through the messy kitchen as my sister and I packed our lunches for school, opening and closing each cabinet in hopes of spotting a spare pack of fruit snacks or chips hiding within them—something other than the apple slices and jelly sandwiches that usually sat, soggy, on the other side of the rusted zipper. Our mother listing off ideas as she tidied the kitchen, all requiring more time than we were willing to spend.

“I’m just going to pack a snack and eat when I get back from school,” my sister decided—as she did every day, tossing a granola bar in her black JanSport backpack that was sagging against the wall. 

“Don’t make a habit of skipping meals. I used to have to leave school daily during lunch to make sure my sister, your aunt, wasn’t at home throwing up her lunch,” my mother admitted, something that I was surprised to hear her mention casually, a topic we avoided, a habit to pretend we didn’t notice when she would take one small bite and “save the rest for later.” The lies we accepted repeatedly, her voice convincing, “I don’t like fried foods,” “Dairy makes me sick,” or “I only like my own baking.” Lies that, eventually, I think even she believed, still believes. 

“Promise me you’ll never start with all that food stuff—it’s awful.” My mom pleaded as she said this, her pale brows forming a slight hill as they lifted faintly in pure sincerity. I promised honestly that I never would. 

I had no worry that I would ever break the promise to my mom. I felt that there was no chance in the world I would ever be able to give up the meals my mom cooked, the smells filling our home, foreshadowing the delicious dinner I knew would be coming, or the personalized cakes she would make on everyone’s birthday according to what they loved that year. The taste of thick chocolate pudding draining slowly from the cleaned-out dump truck and now matching on all of our faces as we uncovered sour gummy worms and Oreo crumbles, all for the daycare kid that was turning four. In fact, I never understood how people developed those thoughts, how they could say, “No, thank you,” when offered a chocolate chip cookie, or turn down the opportunity to hang out with all their friends just because a dinner reservation had been made. 

I didn’t feel those thoughts were possible for me personally; that is, until it was much too late; they seemed to have magically appeared, stuck in habit, still there. I didn’t realize until the mindset and the rules were already stealing the good away, until they had been creeping in for years. Until one day, familiar faces looked at me as if I was stuck, hovering two inches above cold pavement after dropping from a ten-floor building. I didn’t mean to melt into the mattress in my dark room during family dinners, the exhaustion and thought of eating all too heavy to carry down one flight of stairs. I didn’t feel the pain until I could no longer find the throbbing ache that had become as familiar and exhausting as the sliver of light that somehow always sneaks in. I didn’t trust the scale that flashed dangerously low numbers each day because the mirror didn’t match. I didn’t find it strange that I couldn’t remember how it felt to be warm, didn’t believe I was small even when it became a chore to hold my pants up as I walked; I didn’t worry about the “irreversible side effects” when each pull of the plastic hairbrush through my tangled copper hair wrapped more and more hair around its handle, the whisper of my childhood braids resounding in my brain, my mother praising “the thick hair you’ll be grateful to have later in life.” The hair that she had to watch diminish, the hair that tangles itself around anything it can reach, as if trying to escape the body and mind that destroyed it. They always did say to leave behind what isn’t benefiting you in life. I can’t blame my hair for trying, for succeeding; I’m glad my heart never did seem to learn that lesson. 

I prided myself on my independence, never wanting to see the look of betrayal painted across the same face that I promised I never would. Telling myself that I could hide it, the pain, the food, and the fear. I didn’t think you knew that anyone knew, but eventually the “how are you’s” started sounding too sincere, and the echoing “take care of yourself” came from faces pinched with concern. I wish instead of hopelessly trying to protect you, I let you protect me. 

So, to my mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck dealing with the same worries since adolescence. I’m sorry I spent Mother’s Day mentally calculating everything twice and still ending it staring at my reflection in the water filling the white porcelain toilet at dinner, not in your arms. I’m sorry that in a house full of vegetarians you lost someone to share your favorite fried chicken with. I’m sorry that I was too preoccupied with what others thought of me and not with how you worried for me. I’m sorry for all of the reminders I left in my absence. The flakes of lilac rubber that dot the hardwood floors after being stuck to my reddened palms during every morning workout I endured on the old, disintegrating yoga mat. The scale tucked in my closet that I couldn’t bear to give away gathering dust. My favorite clothes are now left in a donation bag, too big for a second chance, and the memories that now haunt both of the houses you’ve called home. 

I’m sorry that the colors that appear in your favorite season, the oranges and reds heating your back as the sun sets in summer, are now colors that appear in your memory splayed over the sterile pillow in a hospital while the doctor announces, “Your sister will not die today, but she wouldn’t have made it to the holidays if you hadn’t made her come in,” or in the orange hairs stuck to the fabric of your gray cardigan after I sobbed into your shoulder when I lost two years of hard work because I wouldn’t eat before my IB exams; reminders of what I lost, the daughter you could’ve lost, and the sister you are visiting in the hospital as I write this. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.

I hope one day soon red will once again sound like the laughs as you pushed me on the Clifford swing in our backyard, orange will taste of the tart fruit smoothies that would quench our thirst on 90-degree days, and copper will smell like the rusted lucky pennies I would run to show you. I hope that the thought of me won’t cause you endless headaches whose incessant pounding is expected, and you won’t question that you did everything you could. I hope that one day you will be able to live for yourself, and not as the savior for those of us who get stuck in this frigid reality where you seem to be the strongest source of warmth.

I’m sorry. The words that appear eleven times in this. The words I can’t seem to utter when I imagine them causing you to sink even shorter than five foot three; our increasing height difference a “constant reminder of my growing up.” The genuine mother you are, so clear in the pure serenity of your blue eyes. The pale, icy blue of a frozen waterfall that I fear to thaw with those words. I wish I could go back to when we folded together in the tiny white twin bed, me refusing to let you leave at night. Imagining the dreams that pounded against your eyelids as I refused to give in to sleep—waiting to intervene in your attempt at escape with one last hug. An expected routine for us every night, the comforting warmth of the kitchen rug I would curl up on to wait for you, imprinting patterns across my cheeks. I can’t imagine giving up the comfort of my own mattress for that of a thin Dora comforter, something you did for me every night. An easy request for someone who’s already used to being needed, a break from the responsibilities that your kindness created. A caretaker that I should have accepted the care of—we all should’ve.

My mom has my sister dye her hair a dark brown, an attempt at recovering her past. The brown of the bark on your favorite weeping willow tree. A dark brown, like the color of my father’s eyes when he would answer my tears with, “You aren’t Cinderella, you have a good life.” Dark brown, like the only shade of eyeshadow able to make me embody an archaeologist, discovering the black of the palette after favored use, the memory of you dragged across my waterline every day. My mom, the one whose warmth feels like the first sip of hot cocoa that doesn’t burn when it slides down your throat. The one who smells like pine after the first snowstorm. The one who feels like the color maroon during fall. The one who I wish I could give my all to—I’m sorry.