saeglopur.

I don't know if I have ever wanted to cry for her more than I did as I drove... down the street, down Azusa, past empty run down homes, to ours that cradled run down hearts.

"Your father never sleeps with me anymore. He sleeps in the guest room and I sleep in the master bedroom and you-- you just don't know how many times I have gone to sleep crying..." her voice was strained but powerful.

My knuckles, white on the steering wheel, began to slowly unclench.

I was driving us back from Olive Garden and had been flying down the empty streets in a flurry, eager to get out of the car and away from my mother. She had been criticizing me again-- my hair, my makeup, my clothing, even my nail polish-- and never let our table talk deviate from school and "what in the world" I was going to do with my major and myself... again. I ate with a clenched jaw that night and drank with a purpose, as though all the alcohol in the world would be gone after that night. My brow furrowed, my lips blood red from my biting them out of frustration.

And now, as my "reckless and terrible driving" attempted to get us home, comments on my appearance and weight arrived once again and I thought I was going to lose it.

My hands began to sweat.

My eyes began to narrow.

"What...?" I scoffed.

I turned to glare, but her head was turned away and she was staring out her window. Not at the road straight ahead, not fearful for her life; her hands were not on the roof handle. They were placed gently in her lap atop her purse.

Silence.

I drove on, past Jim's Burgers, past the best taco stand in town, past the Pacific Palms Resort, and on and on.

Then she spoke, a hushed whisper.

"You don't know how it feels... To know that your husband doesn't want to touch you, doesn't want to kiss you..." the notes trailed off into the air.

Redirect.

"Your dad never takes me out on dates; I'd like to go out on dates, but he's embarrassed to be seen with me. Who would want to go on a date with a man that doesn't hold your hand or open doors for you? Who walks ahead and always leaves you behind..?"

In that instant after she said those first few words, sentences, lines, everything began to slowly melt away and understanding came into play. Color came back into my hands and my jaw unclenched.

Realizations were made.

Secrets revealed.

"You don't know how hard it is sitting in a room with a man you love, knowing he wants to be somewhere else with someone else... right next door, with our neighbor. She keeps up with herself-- I see her. Your dad said she was pretty, and your Auntie Julie said she was slim and attractive...."

She sighed softly.

"... everything I'm not, anymore."

I got angry then and I don't know why. Spastic.

"That's stupid!" I spat out, reaching for words that weren't there,"Don't say that. She's ugly and she's not even nice and she's probably stupid as fuck and she always glares at me whenever I come home and she's out in her driveway doing whatever the hell it is she does which probably isn't much because she's a stupid stupid bitch.." I rambled off quickly.

I was still trying to steady my breathing when she replied.

"It doesn't matter, honey... Men like your father don't really care about those things..."

My breath caught in my throat and whatever air was left was sucked right out of me. I was dazed, but not confused.

"I love your dad, honey, please understand that-- I do. I always will... and even if I wanted to or tried, I don't think I could ever stop. And yes, your dad may tell you he loves me, but he never shows it. But I guess... your dad never really was that much of an emotional guy..."

She was staring straight ahead now, her eyes were empty and glazed over.

I was sad.
I was mad.
I was disgusted.
I was hurting.

But above all, I was helpless...

Helpless to stop the hurt; helpless to ease her pain.

"All I want after a long day is to come home, go to sleep, and just hold... hold my husband--" her arms reached up to hug a lover who wasn't there, "--But I can't."

Her once powerful voice was beginning to break, "...That's the mental torture I go through every day. Every single day."

As always, she picked herself right back up and said with much force, though more like a plea, "That's why I keep telling you, that's why I don't want you to end up like me. I don't want you to ever go through that torture. I don't ever EVER want you to feel that way..."

She quieted down now. The soft meeting of tires making tracks on the roads whirred in the background. Underneath, the sounds of Barry Manilow filled the voids left in the silence.

I drove on, past my elementary school and the church that used to greet us every Sunday morning back when a child turned into a young girl who was forced to become a young woman. We went as a family, sat in the back, always ended up laughing at some point, and always ate brunch after... That was how Sunday Church went.

We've lost our faith since then.

The hand that was perched upon the gear shift moved slowly to my mother's hand and rested atop it. I squeezed, quick and soft but reassuring, and a muffled sniff answered in acceptance.

I drove on, through the dull yellow light that had just turned fiery red, tires softly screeching.

My mother said nothing. She simply sat there, unmoved.

I squeezed her hand again and this time, I did not let go.

And we drove on.