Mom is standing in front of the ivory sink, staring at her reflection, frowning and alternating between forcing her shoulders down and letting them crawl up toward her ears. I know this means she’s worried but I can’t pick one reason—I haven’t heard my father start something with her, my siblings and I have been fairly tame all day, and it’s a weekend so it can’t be her boss. But growing up means seeing how strong my mom is and noticing the things that cause stress. She has stood toe to toe with her husband and appeared just as tall despite being about six inches shorter. She regularly juggles work, three children (four if you count my father), doctors’ appointments, school events, and mail arriving with the words “Urgent” printed on the envelope with little more than a deep sigh and a hand on her forehead.

I have seen her lose it: face flushing pink, tendons and veins in her neck straining, hands flying everywhere as if she could throw her point at you and have some of it stick. I have even seen her cry. Her face turns pale, her nose gets red, and she doesn’t blink much, instead looking somewhere in the distance. Today she looks like neither—her battle is inward, not out, but she is tensed up as if it is. She keeps her hazel eyes on the mirror but doesn’t seem to see anything.

There are no tears in her eyes as she focuses on me and she looks startled that I’ve been standing there.

“What’s wrong, Ma?” I ask though part of me would rather let this be an adult thing.
She stares down at me and I stand still though the lights over the counter burn my eyes as they reflect from the mirrors surrounding us. Her small lips press together before she nods (twice as if she is reassuring herself) before speaking.
“They might take our electricity soon,” she says before her jaw clenches and her head bows. I have never seen her do that—my mother bows to no one, except maybe God. 

I ask her who and why even while knowing this is like all the times I wanted a 64 pack of Crayola crayons and got the twelve pack of RoseArt instead; or how we packed clothes into trash bags and not luggage that time we went to Disney; and how I think about how I would decorate my room, stealing ideas from classmates who brag about their own, while sharing the master bedroom with four other people as four more occupy the other rooms. Mom gives me the short version: we don’t have enough money to pay the bill on time.

“Everything costs money,” she explains. “The lights, water, food, clothes, and we have to work to earn that money.”

The first thing I feel is anger because “f*** money” and it burns low in my chest. I look nothing like her when she’s yelling but I know this is anger too. Then comes the guilt and my mom’s going on but I’m thinking about that fit I threw because I wanted McDonalds, not rice and beans again, and how I have asked for an allowance time and time again, and all the days I spent 50 cents on the soda that the bus driver sold. At some point, she stops talking and crouches down to touch my hair softly, eyes so earnest, as she tries to comfort me.
“We’ll make it work, don’t worry. Things will be fine soon.”

That burning anger comes back because how dare God sit there and watch the best person I know be let down over and over. I tell her “okay” and she smiles and tells me to let my dad and siblings to get ready for the park. But running over grass and sand, digging holes, being shoved away from the swings because it’s my right as the youngest, and getting blisters that harden into calluses after laps on the monkey bars feels a world away now.