It was a while after he left. She was distraught, needing answers as to why it happened to her. This is when I began filling the empty space. She said that “parents are humans too”. I don’t think she ever realized that she answered her own question...

For a moment, Jet forgot how to breathe. Then the guilt started flooding over her, guilt and fear and beneath it all, the constant current of anger. Goddammit, she thought. I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t have to be here! She dug her nails into her purse. Dimly, she noted how her lime nail polish had flaked against the black leather. She noted it the way she noted the brightness of the overhead lights, the soft music, the faint breeze from the window. It was all there, but none of it seemed real to her somehow. It was like her senses had been dulled. Well, she thought, nothing left to do. No way to delay now. She was here. She reached out and grasped the door handle, pulling it open before her courage failed her. She opened the door so suddenly, she surprised herself. Her nerves were as tight as screws. From across the room, two figures glanced up in surprise, looking to see who had slammed their way into the ward. Her stepfather, on seeing her, shot her a glare with no real malice, and bent back over the bed as if she didn’t exist. Her stepbrother, Alex, gave her a smile, though it was laced with puzzlement - and a little pity, too. He stepped forward, taking her hands in his. “Jet,” he said. “I thought ... you weren’t going to make it.” She was sure that hadn’t been what he intended to say. “Is she ... “ Jet felt her voice trailing away, but Alex seemed to understand the implied question. “She’s not awake. Jet, I’m sorry, but ... Doctor Ernst doesn’t think she’ll regain consciousness.” Jet tried not to flinch. Her nails dug a little deeper into her purse. She could feel her breathing getting shallower, the way it used to back in high school. She tried to remember the breathing exercises she had done with her therapist the week before, but it didn’t help. She wasn’t an adult, with a job and an education and her own apartment. She was that scared little freshman again, the one who had no solace at school and none at home save that she found in a medicine cabinet. God, she thought scornfully, that’s the last thing I need. Start taking Mom’s meds again. That’ll really convince her I’m an adult. Jet held out a hand, trembling without realizing it. She was freezing, freezing from the inside out. Alex took her hand, and they stepped forward. One step. Then another. And the she was there, standing above her mother’s hospital bed. She was there. She was free, and employed, unencumbered, unafraid. She was alive and her mother was dying. Thank God. The thought came into her mind fully formed, before she could stop it. No, thought Jet furiously, that’s not me. That’s not who I am anymore, it’s not. I love you, Mom, please. Please, that’s not me. Jet managed a single, scraping breath - and then she burst into tears.

It was 2004 when my mother departed this Earth. I can’t remember the day it happened, the funeral, how my father told me the news, any of it, even though I was nearly six years old at the time.

I can’t remember her face. It faded away into a nebulous sludge, like old memories tend to do. It washed away, lost into the deep abyss of time, reawakened only by dusty old photos stashed away in drawers that rarely open. When I look at those photos, they seem wrong, altered somehow. Her hair is choppier than the image in my head. Her eyes are smaller; her smiles seems forced. I wonder if she was ever happy.

I know my father was happy. I don’t know it from the past. I don’t look back and see him, smiling, having fun; there is no montage of perfect memories ingrained into my brain. But there was a change in him, since then. It started harmlessly, a normal man mourning his dead wife. But it transitioned into something darker, more ominous. I’m not sure how or when the change occurred. I was never aware of it, not until this moment.

Now, I stare down at him. He is sprawled across our living room sofa. There’s an empty bottle of Jack lying sideways on the carpet, not so much as a drop left inside. Next to it, a puddle of acrid vomit.

His face is sallow and pale. His eyes carry deep blueish bags beneath them. His dark brown hair is overgrown, shaggy, sticking to the sweat that glistens on his forehead. The lines on his face seem deeper now, fed for years by his worry and pain.

His eyes lazily open, and he slurs my name.

I sigh, and diligently begin my work. I clean the carpet. I throw away the empty bottle of Jack. And, when I’m done, I take a blanket, and drape it over him. I tuck him in, much like a child. The motion is so familiar to me. And it’s in this very moment that I realise: this is not my father. This is a child, and I am his parent.

“You have to stop this, Dad,” I dare to whisper.

He says nothing. His silence cuts me deeper than any words ever could.

“You’ve missed so much. My piano recitals, my dance competitions. You’re never there. You never have been.”

His face twists.

“When are you going to just... let me be the child for once?”

When he remains silent, I sigh, and head towards the door.

His words stop me in my tracks: “I’m sorry.”

I turn to him, speechless.

“I know I’m not the perfect parent. But losing your mum was...” He trails off. There’s a moment of jarring quietness between us. “I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But... parents are humans too.”

“You never listen to me!” Sara shouted, stomping up the stairs in her Doc Martins, shaking every step on her way up. Martha waited for it, then heard the door slam shut, rattling on its hinges as Sara retreated to her bedroom. Martha paused again, as the music assaulted the quiet of the house for a few seconds and then all was quiet. Martha smirked. “Thank God for headphones”, she thought.

Sara had turned into a screaming, stomping monster since her 13th birthday in March. The hormones had kidnapped her sweet little girl and left this hormonal wreck in her place. Martha probably should come down harder on her when she lost her cool, but Martha was well aware of her own history of parental hate. She remembered a particularly rocky episode with her mom when Martha had wanted to get a tattoo for her 14th birthday and her mom had essentially said it would only happen over her dead body. Then her mom had said the dreaded words to Martha.

“You know, I was a teenager once. I get it. I’m not your enemy and I have feelings. I’m only human”.

Martha’s reply? “Parents aren’t human! They’re...they’re....MUTANTS!”

And her mom just laughed and continued making the meatloaf. What goes around, comes around.

Everyday is a different Story Living in this apartment building I watch children argue Talking back to parents

Other kids hollar at the mom While the dad is not at home Many kids won’t listen Hollering, cussing back at parents Many are abusive,they do not have respect

Parents try to discipline The children just get angry Talking back and cursing Showing no respect

Parents are human too. They do deserve respect Kids are very stubborn They do not appreciate They cus and treat there parents As if they don’t belong

I seen the mothers crying They can not discipline The children hollar out abuse They know they have it won The people who made up the laws Are no better than our kids

They sit around and make these laws They do not have no kids at all But yet they change the laws Protecting all these kid Parents are humans too The kids should learn respect Even if the parents should Take a board across that ass

These parents are human too We buy there clothes, pay the rent Furnish them a car, we buy the food Pay the bills, even give them money I know us parents, do deserve respect Parents are human too Please listen closely, pack your things And leave our home, you think Your all grown up walk out that door And don’t come back Until you have learned respect and that Parents are human too

                      Written By:
                       Freddie Lopez
                      03-07-2020