okay so this book has been pretty dark and moody so I thought it'd be about time to take a break on the dreary side of life and brighten it up a bit

—

It was a Thursday when mama said she couldn't stand the sight of my face anymore.

She didn't say it out loud though.

She spoke in the twist of her lips, in

the tug of the comb through my knotty hair, in the thick heatstroke air, in those eyes of hers that always want to close but never seem to shut and

her hair unruly and fraying at the edges and skin sizzling hot and everything, every feature, all of them simultaneously mad

at me at once.

She could scream "leave" at my face without even making a sound. She'd mime with skill–a talent people would pay money for.

I remember, she spent most of that day on the phone curling the cord around her fingers, speaking in low whispers, hurried then and angry there. She'd never forget to look at me during the long pauses when she stood still. She was solving equations I couldn't understand in her mind and looked at me as if I was what needed to be figured out. The 'n' in the problem.

She left for work in the evening. And I spent the whole night wondering what wrong I did her.

Finally at four in the morning I decided that it wasn't a problem food couldn't fix and I got up with a ready heart and a certain determination in my bones. Got the Betty Crocker cake mix and the last few eggs in the fridge and made her a lemon cake.

Now it was lopsided, and a bit sour but it was my heart and my soul and my sorry baked into every crevice and corner. I sprinkled the soft sugar on top for a lil flare.

Sat by the table and waited till the sun rose just smiling at my creation with a floured face. I heard the door open and rushed to her with the cake in hand.

She came in, and I held the cake up to her with a grin that stretched as long as the horizon.

But before my mama even took notice of her cake she looked me in the eyes and said,

"Pack your things."

Pack your things. It's funny, she still couldn't say leave like the word wasn't gut for her mouth, but it seeped into her clothing like sweet perfume you could smell it there.

"Pack your things." she said.

And I know, it sounds sad, I do–know things that is, a bit too much at that age but, it wasn't sad. It was good. Trust me, you'll see.

"Leave." Was one of the best things she's never said to me.