Fragrance of Columbian coffee wafts into the small space I stand in. At times it reminds of my late grandfather. At five o’clock every morning, he would sit at the kitchen table with a cup, listening to the roosters as they shrilly crowed waking the neighborhood. Now that he and my grandmother are gone, the pleasant smell only brings back memories of my mother’s bloodshot eyes and cranky mornings.
And this morning is no exception. “You think you’re so attractive,” my mother, Delilah, says in that distasteful tone of hers. She’s standing at the door of our closet sized bathroom, cornering me, striking me with every verbal blow she can dish out. “You’re just as repulsive as that monster that ruined me. You’re disgusting, you’re—” As usual, I zone out, not bothering with her. I check my hair in the mirror like she’s not there.
She’s angry with me, which is the norm around home. This is her typical behavior when I ask her a question or when I ask for a favor. This performance is because I need her to drive me to my psychiatrist. Or maybe she’s just angry because I’m alive and breathing instead of lying dead in my bedroom.