You have left the house with all your children but me, and this is not the first time. The lights in the house are all out and I am sitting near the door numb like I always sit when you’re gone. Numb and naked and in darkness.
Mother, I am sorry for the way I cannot show it to you but you leave me shredded sometimes. You always tell me, picking me up in your ever-warm hands, launching kisses across my face, that I am your baby too. You always make me sense this sensation that you love me almost as equally but then your abandonment says otherwise, mother. I never say it to you, but you sense it, do you not? There is an expression on your face that I think you all refer to as ‘guilt’ whenever you return home and find me on my spot. No one but you approach me and say sorry. It’s not like I mind. Do I say anything to you? No I don’t. I am mute. But you always always always read my eyes. Your children cannot, mother.
Your children are what you all refer to as ‘prejudiced’ against me. I am different, I do realize, that is why I always am on my own. But you love my blue eyes, don’t you? Their black eyes would scrutinize my charcoal hair but you love them because you would gently brush them in the evenings and whenever you’d bathe me, you would be so careful with them. During the bath, you would always keep talking to me but some of the stories you tell, I do not understand, mother. And do you understand my isolation and solitude, mother? You must because only you come and tend to me just right and know when to give me space. But there is always something missing, mother. Is it wrong of me to feel this way, I just don’t know. I have never felt this way for anyone the way I do for you. The mother in the previous house never loved nor took care of me they way you do. I want to be loved like your real children.
But it’s not like I have never tried to get included with them. I have lowered my dignity and pride but they ignore me often as if I don’t exist. They do come and fondle me and caress my neck and pat on and scratch my head and I feel so nice but they then always have to busy themselves with some work of their own which I would not have any part in. I’d keep sitting around them, mother, but they would barely notice. I am too young and they are all old; they do but you never have made me feel bad about this. When it would get too boring to watch them in front of their screens is when I would retreat back to you in the kitchen. You would understand that I need food. You know, mother, I have gotten used to you giving me food separately. Me on the floor, they on the table. I really have. The likes of me are not supposed to eat on the table.
But I am sitting on the floor right now, mother, naked and numb, thinking and thinking and over thinking all of these thoughts in my head. I feel hungry, mother. My eyes are stuck on the door you would come through – after you return from shopping or the doctor or from your relatives’ or from the movies or from a dinner out or from some funeral – so that I could pretend to be upset at you and you sense that from my dish you left filled with cat food.