Smile for the Street

The story of my mother - Part 2

My mother had only completed elementary school and worked in a food factory for over twenty years – day shifts, night shifts, always alternating. After work, she came home and did the chores: cooking, laundry, gardening. The garden had to be beautiful. Not for us – for the neighbors.

Her greatest goal in life was to ensure nobody could say anything bad about our family. Shame was the enemy. She was willing to sacrifice everything for a flawless public image. She smiled, talked to people as if everything was fine, and never showed what was really going on.

We had to look clean and well-dressed. We had to behave. My mother paid painful attention to our appearance. Every evening, she cleaned our ears and checked if there was any flaw people could notice and talk about. She lived in constant fear. Always on high alert. Fight-or-flight mode – every single day.

She had no hobbies. No passions. Once she had completed everything, she lay in bed with open eyes, waiting. Waiting for the next task.

The next crisis.

She was an average-looking woman. About 5.5 feet tall, dark brown hair, regular build. Most days she wore jeans and a t-shirt. But when there was a school event or work party, she dressed up too much – my father hated those days. He was sure she was cheating and punished her for it with alcohol and rage. She knew she would pay for any moment she appeared to enjoy something.

I spent many hours with my mother in the kitchen. The door to the garden was open, she cooked or cleaned, and I listened.

She mostly complained – about her suffering, her thankless life, and how everything she did was for us.

She never asked how I was.

She never knew my friends, or what music I liked.

But if I mentioned a girl, she turned into a private investigator. She needed to know the family background, education, appearance – everything. If it was acceptable, she said nothing. If not, she made sure it ended.

My brother got it worse. None of his girlfriends were ever good enough. Poor. Stupid. Or – worst of all in her view – Roma.

She once screamed for over an hour at him just because he had a relationship she didn’t approve of.

When he managed to endure her, she came to me. She unloaded everything. Complained for hours. About him. About my father.

And I listened.

Always listened.