Story by Melissa Catarina, illustration by Eve Pyra

As I drag my feet on the dark wooden floor and hold the moving walker with my shaky, weak hands, my mind drifts away into days gone by. The silence is daunting. I can hear the upstairs neighbour furiously bang the doors as she forgets there is more to life than the routine that traps us in an endless frustration. Step by step I force myself to move another painful inch forward that presses an extenuating pressure in my chest.

Once I ran. My mother would watch me from the inside of the kitchen. Her hands manoeuvred the dishes in a perfect elegance and care as she sunk them in the soapy water. Our eyes would eventually meet. Me, outside, her, inside. Light dark circles adorned them, her skin was young, yet reflected the exhaustion of her life as a mother, as a wife and as a woman. Even though I now know that her mind would be lost in the galaxy of her problems, she would always smile making sure that I felt loved…