He Is My Mother

I can say that today is the day of my life. I live for today.
I look into the mirror while I am buckling up my belt. “Perfect,” I smile to my reflection. I feel nervous yet terrific – butterflies and knots in my stomach make me shake. I ask myself in the other side of the mirror if I was ready. “Yes, Nora, you’re ready.”

I walk down the stairs carefully without ruining my hair and hear my mother calls, “Sweetie! It’s time for breakfast!” “Argh! You’ll ruin my hair,” I call back.
My mother started making me breakfast ever since we’ve moved. He used to go to work early without eating anything and come home at midnight. He worked as a security guard in the morning and a taxi driver at night. He stopped working night shifts after dad has gone to jail. We moved the other month. Still, I don’t know why we had to move, but maybe mother wanted to forget about the past, let it fade and move on.

I frown at the overcooked fried egg and walk towards the fridge. “What are you looking for?” He asks. “Diet coke. Duh,” I roll my eyes, but I don’t think if he saw it.
I don’t like it when he asks about everything; he’s not my biological mother after all. Yes, I was adopted – that’s common sense, how can two men give birth to a child? Human reproduction requires a daughter of Eve and a son of Adam. Anyway, he could’ve cared less; he knows nothing about a girl.
“Oh my god, are you obsessed with thinness? Holy Jesus!” He cries in a really high tone, “How many times I’ve told you NOT to lose weight? Men don’t like skinny girls, otherwise your dad…” “Would’ve married that skinny-Ginny, not you. Yea, yea, yea, I know.” I interrupt. I put the diet coke back into the fridge and take out a carton of orange juice.
“Have you put your application form into your bag yet?” He grins. “Mhmm,” I reply carefully, preventing choking on the orange juice.
He has always been supportive when it comes to playing piano. It has been my dream since I was three. Dad disapproved it, he didn’t let me learn piano because we couldn’t afford it. That was then mom started to drive taxi at midnight to earn extra money for my dream to become a pianist.

It’s a Sunday, which means a day off. I get on his taxi and calm myself down. I breathe slowly in and out. “Okay, set?” He makes sure. “Set,” I smile. I watch our house slowly sliding backwards and contracting smaller and smaller in the mirror. “I’m your brother from now on, if you like,” mother says.
He doesn’t want me to be embarrassed by his identity as my mother. I usually introduce him to my friends as my brother or cousin, because it’s easier. Before we moved, I was too honest. The kids at my school called me a pervert, and said that my parents were sissy-home-makers. I went home, crying, and told my mom. He slapped the class-bully, Jessie, and called her a b****. I was expelled from school.

We arrive at the city hall, where all the well-known pianists hold their concerts. A banner was hung up high; it says “International Mozart Music Competition”. I take out the application sheet and register.
“Each attendant should only bring along one companion, who also needs to fill in the application form and we’ll reserve seats for both.” The lady at the counter says. I nod. “What is your name, Mister?” the lady asks my mother. “Damien Rocher,” He answers. “What is your relationship to the attendant?” She says with a British accent. My mother looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
“He is my mother.” I answer.