Books about motherhood have wrestled my aching body ever since my own mom decided to walk away from hers the first and second time. Finding a letter on my bed at age fifteen to learn she never intended to come back was how I found out I'd have to raise myself. With trembling legs, I read the letter she also left my dad on his bed in the guest room. Although it was different ideas and I didn't process most of her Spanish, both his letter and mine had: I love you. And although mothers and daughters in books hurt each other in different ways, they always find ways to touch foreheads and forgive. This is because the daughters learn in the end that their mothers never intended to hurt them, and I walk with that as I learn to forgive my parents and random strangers who hurt me and those around us.

"The Secret Life of CeeCee Wilkes" by Diane Chamberlain is a book that lingers within me, its plot and characters coming to mind whenever I talk to my mom. How the main character did everything in her power to protect her daughter and ended up creating a mess of a human being that couldn't go in elevators or use public transportation. She never intended for her to be that way, to turn out so helpless. But as a woman with a new identity, she was helpless. She did things a certain way because she felt like she owed her daughter's real and dead mother something for being part of what brought them together, for watching her die and not trying harder to keep her alive. She did things out of guilt and a newfound love she discovered as she's shoved into her new role of motherhood.

I know people are inherntly good, they just learn how to do bad things or do things for themselves and their own joy that accidentally hurts other. My mom was looking out for her own happiness and freedom the times she left and came back to us, and I was always her strong daughter. Her perfect child who cried behind walls so she wouldn't think was hurting me. Because I knew she didn't want to. It wasn't her intention.

and i’m sorry i didn’t let you stand your ground

but after you ripped our red rug from under me

let me stumble down to my knees

i knew it wasn’t you and i who were meant to be

it was the front door with the chip on the paint that your mom made when she brought in a new red chair

where i left to my first day of work in the bright red dress you never liked

where you brought her in through in your favorite color

and i could never let you speak for yourself

when its always been your hands who do all the talking

turning the door knob

turning yourself away from me

turning yourself into someone i do not know

i know enough now to get up and leave

there's no shame in that

only shame in my taste in decor

our welcome mat was too inviting

How the sand escapes my hands

from inbetween my fingers

is how I felt

my thrill for you leave

How did I let you

take away God given energy

and toss it

to the weeping seas

You left the kitchen sink on one day

and I thought I couldn't hate you more

as the sound of water hitting dirty spoons

ate what was left of my heart

I locked the second door knob

knowing you wouldn't have the key

but I had to learn

I couldn't lock myself in

when I wanted to leave

I left behind your perfume

but it lived in my car

drove me to work everyday

drove me insane

he day I left

and everyday

until I started walking to work

I never smelled the same since I've been with you

but the fragrance

is running out

honey never rots

but the roses are wilting

You have left a rotten taste on my tongue

I'm already wilting, brown spots in place

The hourglass says there's less time

to file for a divorce

find a new lover

find a new tide to wash me to an island

where I could love

forever this time

maybe

As the sea level rises

I lose sight of who I think I am

I'm so used to be unhappy

it's weird walking barefoot on sand

let my feet sink into the warmth

let the sun give me wings

to fly over the seas

and flip the hourglass once more

after all

all we made was mud

you and me

It was a rainy afternoon in Paris, and Marc was relaxing in his favorite coffee shop during his break. He was scrolling through his phone, not paying attention to anything else, numbing out the sound of glasses clinking and people chatting about the weather. He was sitting in the corner booth where nobody could see him unless they looked for him. It wasn’t until he looked up that he saw a woman with short blue hair approach him. Really big sunglasses framed her face and she wore a bright red trench coat. He didn't know her.

Marc watched her sit sown across from him and pull out a brown bulky envelope from her pocket. She opened the envelope and pulled out a picture of someone extremely familiar to him. At this point, Marc didn’t know if he should reach for his gun or not.

“I heard you were the guy to see,” the woman spoke in a whisper.

“For what?”

“Murder.”

You see, what was funny was that Marc was a detective trying to solve two murder cases at that moment. What was also funny is that the photo she had shown him was of his father.

Marc didn’t know what to say. He was trained in how to deal with someone offering you money to stay silent but not this. He knew how to hide nervousness well, and he kept his composure as the lady peered at him through his glasses.

He was about to say something when a waiter went up to him with a tray and left him his coffee and muffin. Marc didn’t dare look away from the woman once, scared that she’d disappear. It wasn’t until the waiter left that Marc shifted his attention to the right of him. He turned his head once he saw a man wearing the exact same black trench coat he was wearing. The woman's attention also shifted, and she quickly stood up.

"Shit," she angrily muttered in a hissy whisper, immediately shoving the envelope and photo back into her pocket. She ran out of the store and into the stopping rain, the other man just two steps behind her.

Marc knew he should have had followed them, but he had never been in a situation like that. He almost played the part to get as much information as he could, but he wasn’t really trained on how to ask calmly, “Why do you want to kill my father?!”

Marc leaned back in the booth seat and stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and ran both of his hands through his chestnut colored hair. He’s seen people split in half without being phased, but this was a weird hit to the chest. His father was always guarded by security, so he wasn’t worried as much as a regular person would be about their father’s safety. He was more concerned about why people were after his father and what shady business they were in.

Marc straightened up and looked down at his coffee for the first time. It wasn’t until he picked up his coffee that he noticed that the napkin below it. It was written on with messy writing in pen: Run. While you still can.

#mystery #detective #shortstory

You wake up on the floor, your hand in a bowl full of hardening nacho cheese. You make a disgusted face and pull it out, wiping your hand on the floor. Your mom will yell at you for that one later when she cleans your room.

You get up and jump in the shower, tossing your spaceship pajamas on the floor next to your other dirty clothes. Your dad always tells you to take them to the laundry room right after each shower, but honestly, you think making daily walks down to the scary basement isn't worth it.

When you get ready in your play clothes, you leave your room and sneak downstairs. You see that nobody is up yet, and your older sister hasn't returned from her sleepover either. Your parents said she got to go out more than you because socializing helped her feel better after your grandpa's death. You didn't get why it meants she could stay out much later than you did, but like always, you assumed it was the age difference. You sometimes also assumed it was because she was the favorite, and you were just their troublemaking kid who made messes in the play room. After all, they have gone through six microwaves since your birth.

You take a drinkable yogurt and a banana from the kitchen, put on your backpack and quietly leave the house. You eat the banana as you walk down the street and make your way through town. You don't see that many people, just older couples sitting out on their porch. You think that everyone is going to die out soon. Everyone has been dying too soon. You think you might be next

You reach main street and throw away the banana in a trashcan. You walk through the stores, a lot of them barely opening. Some people sweeping outside their stores smile at you, others stare curiously and possibly wonder what you could be carrying in the backpack of yours.

When you reach your destination, you stand in front of it and drink your yogurt. It would open in a few minutes. You check your watch continuously. Your dad asked that you didn't wear it until you grow older because it fit big. He didn't want you to lose your grandfather's watch, that was it. But, not really caring much for your father, you put it on everyday. It's summer, you told him, I won't lose it in the house.

You watch almost every passing second on the watch, the little hand moving faster and faster. Then the door opens, and the old man at the door smiles at you.

"Hello again," he says before walking inside. You chug the rest of your yogurt and throw it away before opening the door and going inside the antique shop.

"Hi, Mr. Doyle," you say, walking behind the old man who is going through his shop with a clipboard. "Did you get any new watches?"

"Same ones as yesterday," he says, not looking at you. "Do your parents know how many watches you've got on you?"

"Just the one on my wrist, Mr. Doyle," you hold up your wrist, the big watch sliding down your skinny arm. Mr. Doyle sees that and chuckles before walking away. You follow behind him like a little duck and say, "Mr. Doyle. I just need one that looks like this one."

"You've boughten eleven watches, kid," Mr. Doyle yawns. He's heard this conversation almost everyday for four months. "Shouldn't you be saving that money for college or something?"

"I'll get scholarships, Mr. Doyle, " you brush him off. "My grandpa wouldn't mind me spending the money like this anyways."

"Why do you keep buying watches if they don't match that one?" he asks you. He's never asked that before, and it excites you.

"Because, Mr. Doyle. They're the same brand as this one. The Muitton Crossbow brand is never going to die. If I get the other watch that looks like this one or even looks the same, I'll never die." Mr. Doyle stops in his tracks and looks at you with the face your parents always give you. Adults never know whether to be amused or concerned.

"Well," he says, patting you once on the head, "good luck, kiddo. They only made two of those watches. Whoever has the other one, won't want to let it go." You thank him and leave the store.

You come back the next day and buy a new watch. You leave again. You go the next day again and talk to him for a while. You tell him your grandpa was born and raised in that town and that if both the watches were united, the owner or owners would live forever. You knew Mr. Doyle didn't belive you, but your grandpa wouldn't lie to you. You were his favorite.

You go everyday for a week and then you skip three days because you're grounded. You put one of the watches in the microwave out of curiosity. Seven microwaves.

You go back for two weeks straight and get three more watches in that time. Mr Doyle asks if you really want to live forever and you say of course! But when you go home, you see pictures of your family from years ago. You'd have to see all of them die. Seeing grandpa die hurt. You'd have to hurt for the rest of your life. Does everyone hurt for their rest of their life?

Then you stop going. School starts, and it's very hard being in the fourth grade. Then Mr. Doyle dies. Heart attack the adults say. That's what they always say.

You go to the funeral and you leave him some lillies. He always had those in his shop. His shop was ran by his daughter now, who you saw a couple of times. She was crying a lot. She only had him left. She had no kids, no husband. You thought it was quite sad.

Mr. Doyle's death didn't settle in with you even after the funeral. You wanted to get him back, but you knew you couldn't. You wish you would've found the other watch so he wouldn't have died until he was ready. You would've let him borrow yours for as long as he wanted.

Someone goes to your house the same day, and you run upstairs to hide. You lay out all your watches in a circle now, and you watch them all tick at the exact same time. You feel dizzy. There's a knock at your door, and you reach over to a dirty shirt next to you to cover the watches up.

"Mom and dad said to come downstairs," your sister says. "Frida Doyle is here." You simply nod at her, and she walks away. You hear her lock herself up in her room again. You get up and go downstairs and see Frida and your parents in the living room together. When Frida sees you, she stands up and smiles at you. She has a watch box in her hands, stretched out to you. Without saying anything, you take it. "Dad left this for you. He liked your daily visits."

"Daily?" your mom whispers to your dad in the background.

"Oh," you look down at the box, heart hurting. You can't tell her to thank him for you. "Thank you for bringing it."

"Of course," Frida tells you. She pats your head and takes off after saying some words to your parents. Meanwhile, you don't take your eyes off the Muitton Crossbow box. You already know what's inside, and you feel guilty. You start to cry, and your parents run over to you to hug you. They haven't done that in a while, but you let the weird feeling settle in.

"He's so happy you have the watch now," your mom coos.

"You can wear one on each wrist now," your dad says. "There's no need to cry."

"There is a need to cry," you start to sob, your nose getting extremely runny and out of control. "Now I have to live forever."