“Your room is an absolute mess! It’s a complete pig sty, this is an atrocity!” My mum yells at me, a cold hard glare set in her eyes, directed solely at me.

“How could you say that?! It’s not mess, it just has...character. My art teacher told me that a messy room shows creativity and personality,” I shoot back. I have to be careful not to raise my voice too much though, she’s still my mum and I owe it to her to respect her. Respect her about everything except for my bedroom.

“Oh, I suppose you can just go ask your art teacher to be your mum then. Yes, she’ll cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. She’ll iron the clothes and fold them. She’ll clean the house everyday while running a business from home. Don’t worry, your art teacher will do it all,” mum shouts.

I can tell she is mad. Very mad. Her eyes glow and I almost see them shift from their hazel hue to a demonic red. Stop Abigail, don’t call your mum a demon. I glance up again, wait, do I see the devil’s horns poking up from her head?

“Abigail Spilsbury, are you listening to me?” She shouts and I snap back out of my weird daydream.

“Yes, yes sorry. I’ll clean it up later, when I get a chance.”

“When you get a chance!? When you get a chance?!?! Excuse me, if I packed your school lunch ‘when I got a chance’, you wouldn’t have any!” She yells and I raise my eyebrows slightly.

Sometimes, I wish parents would just...listen. I get it. I’m messy, I’m dirty, I’m stupid, I’m weird, I’m not normal, but I’m me. Parents can set very high expectations on their children, not even realising that they can break their child down at the same time. I said I would clean my room when I got a chance, I have to finish my school assignment. But mum doesn’t listen. She never does.

“Mum, please. I don’t have time. I just need to finish off my homework,”I sigh.

“I’m only trying to help Abby, a clean room is important. When your room is messy, it gets unhealthy and unhygienic. You can get sick!” Mum says, her tone softened now.

“I know mum, I promise I’ll clean it.” I say and she gives me a small smile. As she walks out of my room, stepping over the pile of clothes at my door, I notice how tired she looks. Her once upright and bouncy posture, now remains little more than a slump. She rubs her back in pain and wrinkles start to cover her forehead. Mum’s still as beautiful as ever and before, of course, otherwise how would I get my dashing looks? But she looks...different.

I feel a thread of guilt tying a bow in the back of my head and I decide to help her more. We have to understand each other. We have to listen.