Call Her Mother

Blogtober Short Story Entry # 7

Being the daughter of immigrants ensured that the relationship I would have with mother would be shit. That’s what they called her, mother, and that’s what she demanded, blind loyalty and respect driven by fear. But Iryn wasn’t born on the dirt roads of Mendez, though today she walked them with pride, Iryn had opinions, ideas and questions, Iryn would never conform and never listen. Iryn could never, call her, mother…..

Raised to believe she was my older sister, the one who rescued me from our “insane” mother, brought me to safety in Trinidad, sent barrels of clothing and Colgate during Christmas, and returned every carnival season with her “boyfriend”. Raised to see her fly in with the force of ocean waves, disrupt the house with her vibrant spirit that kept granny proud and smiling, only to have her leave with promises unfulfilled.

No, this can’t possibly be my mother, and the question remains, who then is my father…

Much love from the brown girl, sharing short stories for Blogtober! Keep writing, even if no one is reading ❤️

Nyri~The Unnerved Traveler