“I can’t find my charger!”
That was the alarm that pulled me out of my dream. Not even 7 a.m. yet. My eyes were still half-glued together but I knew that voice, sharp, dramatic, always louder than necessary. My dearest mother.
She was already in the sitting room, wrapper tied carelessly, voice flying through the walls. “I left it here last night, I’m very sure. Matt! Rachel! You people better look for it oh, before I lose my mind this morning. I know it’s you, Matt. Always taking my things and not returning them.”
By the time I dragged myself there, my siblings had already turned the house upside down. Rachel crawling under the center table. Matt pulling out random drawers like a police raid.
“Mummy…” I yawned, scratching my head. “You left it at the shop yesterday. Remember? You said your phone was full so no need to bring the charger home.”
Silence.
Rachel’s head popped up from under the table, dust on her cheek. Matt froze mid-search, drawer still hanging open. Both eyes turned toward her.
My mother shrugged and said, “Childbirth chips away at your memory. It’s not my fault I don’t remember tiny details. You people will understand when you have your own children.”
We burst out laughing. Even she laughed It was funny. But also… not funny. Thing is, this wasn’t new.
Life with her had always been like this, half comedy skit, half minefield. She loved us fiercely, no doubt. But there was always this edge, this quickness to blame, to accuse before asking.
Last week, she left her ATM card in the freezer (don’t ask me how), then nearly flogged Matt for “playing nonsense games with important things.” A month ago, she burned stew because she was gisting Rachel, then blamed Rachel for “distracting her.”
And still, we always ended up laughing. Maybe because it was easier to laugh than admit it hurt sometimes. Although Matt never laughs, he's always hated being accused of what he did not do.
As the firstborn, I felt the weight the most. I was in my final year of medical school, my brain already fried with exams, rotations, and my own quarter-life crisis. Add living in a house where one wrong move could turn into “who took my things!” drama… some days I felt like packing my bag and running away.
But she was my mother. Our mother. Fierce, dramatic, annoying, unforgettable. And we loved her. Even if it sometimes felt like walking on eggshells.
That night, when the house had quieted, I found her in the kitchen peeling oranges. She always said it calmed her. The fan was creaking overhead, stirring warm air that smelled of citrus. I decided to risk it. I stood there awkwardly for a bit, then said, “Mummy, can I tell you something without you getting angry?”
She gave me side-eye. “That one already sounds like insult.”
“No, it’s not. Just…” I shifted from one foot to the other. “Sometimes, you’re quick to blame us for things. Like today with the charger. Or the stew. It makes us feel like we’re always at fault.”
Her knife stopped mid-peel. For a second, my heart jumped. But she only sighed, long and heavy.
“You think I enjoy forgetting? Sometimes I swear I know something. Then somebody corrects me and I realize I’m wrong. It makes me feel stupid. So I push it on someone else, it's easier that way than admitting something is wrong with my head.”
Her voice cracked a little. “It started after Rachel. I'm not trying to scare you oh but thank God you're a medical doctor too. People think childbirth only takes beauty from a woman. Stretch marks, hair. No. It takes pieces of your mind too. Your body. Things nobody warns you about.”
I swallowed hard. The orange smell filled the room.
The next week, when she forgot the house keys at the shop and we nearly slept outside, I decided enough was enough.
“Mummy, let’s go to the hospital. Just to check. Please.”
“Hospital ke? So they will say your mother is running mad?”
“No one is saying that. Just to be sure.”
Even Matt and Rachel begged. Eventually, she agreed.
The neurosurgeon’s office was too white, too cold. My mother sat stiff on the chair, arms crossed like she was ready to fight if anybody said the wrong thing. I sat beside her, heart thudding like I was the patient.
After questions, small tests, all the usual poking around, the doctor leaned back in his chair. He smiled, and I released a breath I hadn't realize I was holding.
“There’s nothing wrong with her brain,” he said.
I exhaled so loudly everyone turned.
“But,” he continued, looking at all of us, “your mother’s body has been through childbirth three times, yes?”
She nodded cautiously.
“Then it’s no surprise. Pregnancy and childbirth can cause long-term changes. Some women lose their hair. Some develop hearing issues. Some lose the sharpness of taste. And yes… some notice their memory isn’t the same. It’s not a disease. It’s biology. Sacrifice. The body gives, and gives, and something goes missing. That doesn’t mean she’s failing. It just means she needs more care, rest, proper diet, less stress. It’s the price of motherhood.”
The room went quiet. Even my mother blinked, her usual defenses slipping.
“So…” she whispered, “I’m not crazy?”
“Not at all,” the doctor smiled.
On the way home, she was unusually quiet. No blame, no shouting. Just quiet.
That night, she gathered us in the sitting room, her voice softer than I’d ever heard. “I know I can be too quick to shout. Too quick to blame. It’s not that I hate you children. It’s just… sometimes I feel small. Like the world took something from me I can’t get back. And I don’t know how to admit it. But I will try.”
We nodded. Rachel sniffled. Matt mumbled something about how he’d forgive her if she stopped blaming him for everything.
And me? I just sat there, watching her.
They don’t tell you this part of motherhood. That beyond the joy, beyond the sleepless nights, sometimes even memory is stolen. That a woman gives her body, her mind, her everything, and still keeps giving.
Tomorrow, she might still accuse Matt of hiding her charger. She might still throw small tantrums. But I’ll remember what the doctor said, that behind the blame is sacrifice carved deep into her bones.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep laughing. Even when it’s not funny.
THE END
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In response to The Inkwell Fiction Prompt #237. All images are from Meta.ai
Thank you for reading. 🧡
