🔴 MY MOM REPEATED “IT’S OKAY, IT’S OKAY” WHILE HOLDING A DIRTY KNIFE
I could smell the bleach before I even walked through the front door, which was weird enough.
She was scrubbing the kitchen floor, muttering to herself; the linoleum was damp and freezing under my bare feet. “Mom, what happened?” I asked, but she just kept scrubbing, harder now, her knuckles white.
She finally looked up, her eyes all red and puffy. “It’s okay, honey,” she said, but her voice was shaking. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” And then I saw it: the glint of the knife in her hand, the dark stain on the blade.
The air conditioning suddenly kicked on, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine. A muffled thump came from upstairs, followed by silence.
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I took a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Mom, what… what is that?” I stammered, gesturing towards the knife. The silence upstairs was a heavy weight, pressing down on me.
She didn’t answer, just kept repeating, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Her gaze flickered towards the stairs, then back to me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes – fear, maybe? Or something worse.
“Let me see,” I said, my voice stronger now, a desperate plea for normalcy. I reached out a hand, slowly, cautiously. She flinched, the knife trembling in her grip.
Then, with a sob that wracked her entire body, she dropped the knife. It clattered against the floor, the stain gleaming under the harsh kitchen lights. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
I knelt beside her, unsure what to do, my gaze darting between her and the stairs. The bleach smell intensified, choking the air. Finally, I managed to wrap my arms around her. “Mom, it’s okay,” I whispered, echoing her earlier words, though I didn’t believe them for a second.
We stayed like that for a long moment, huddled on the cold floor. Then, with a deep breath, I pulled myself together. I had to do something. “Stay here,” I said, my voice firm. “I’m going upstairs.”
As I climbed the stairs, each step felt like an eternity. The silence hung thick and heavy, broken only by my own ragged breathing. I reached the top and peered down the hallway. The door to my parents’ bedroom was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The room was a mess. The bed was overturned, the sheets in a tangled heap. And there, on the floor, lying amidst the chaos, was my father. He was… he was just sleeping. A single, small cut on his forehead trickled a tiny bead of blood.
My mom, lost in her mental torment, had overreacted to a minor cut. The “thump” was likely him falling out of bed. The stain? Maybe he’d spilled his coffee. My relief was so profound, it almost brought me to my knees.
I went back downstairs, my heart still racing, and helped my mom up. We cleaned the knife, the floor. We hugged. It wasn’t okay, not really, but somehow, it would be. Maybe.