I remember the sky being cloudy that day, almost as if it was an omen telling me to not leave the house. But who believes in omens anyway? The day started as any other, I woke up too early, made breakfast for my siblings and headed out.

It was cold, too cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your skin, chilling you to the bone. I remember my teeth chattering together, the noise went unnoticed compared to the loud traffic of the crowded New York streets. I had my head covered in my baggy sweatshirt, my face hidden from the world. My old warn converse patted against the pavement, wet from the early morning drizzle. It didn’t really matter where I was going, and in New York, no one cared. We all probably looked like ants scurrying to somewhere important, but in reality we really have no reason to rush.

I had my old bag slung over my shoulder, just like any other day. My feet subconsciously stopped once I reached my destination. The psychiatric hospital, or the lock up, stood in front of me, looming over me, taunting me. I ignored the chill that ran down my spine and climbed the boring grey steps, just like every other day.

“Kelly.” The gruff guard grunted as I entered. It looked the same as any other day, but at the time it felt different. They led me into a quiet room, painted bright colors, but the colors weren’t fooling anyone. No one wanted to be there.

“Kelly! Baby, I’m so happy you came! Why don’t you ever come to visit your mommy anymore?” I closed my eyes and slowly turned to face her. My mother stood before me, her bird nest hair was tangled on top of her head and her makeup coated her face, making her resemble a clown. She came towards me, clad in her usual pink fuzzy bathrobe and white bunny slippers.

“Hi, mom. You look well today.” I lied as I shrugged the bag off my shoulder. Her doctor stood behind her, observing silently. That’s all they seem to do, observe. My mom sat on the floor and crossed her legs. Sighing, I sent her doctor a look and sat down across from her.

“What’d you bring for your mommy dearest?” Mom asked. I pulled out pictures of Benji, my 12-year-old brother, Hannah, my eight-year-old sister and a coloring book with crayons. Mom instantly squealed and reached for the coloring book and crayons, her kids lie there, forgotten. I can feel the doctor’s eyes on me as I watch my mother. He considered her case a “lost cause”, but I refused to give up.

“Mom, Benji won the science fair.” I mentioned in hope of getting a response. I remember my heartbeat quickened when she lifted her head. Did she remember? Did she care? Was she getting better?

“Baby, you bought the wrong coloring book.” That was it. That was all she said before she turned back to her coloring. That was the day I realized my brother and sister were forgotten forever and soon she’d forget me too. The Doctor’s said she had a mental disorder, but I believe she just chooses to forget.