NdukuOutLoud

She always felt it before she saw him.
Used to call them butterflies-she's not so sure anymore.
Not sure if they were ever butterflies or warnings.
Or if they morphed, like he did.

Did they pick up on the change?
That he's not the same jolly man he once was.
That now he's something else.
Someone she can no longer recognize.

Did she ever?

The unsteady steps up the final flight of stairs sound labored.
He's struggling.
Probably the weight. He's gained some in recent months.
Much bigger than he used to be.
Still in shape-for his age.

Why did we have to live so far up, he thinks.
And curses.
A bit angrier now.

Amara has learned how to read her mother's face.
The subtle shifts that give away whatever she's feeling.
She, too, will spend years trying to decode them.

Was it fear?
Panic?
Regret?
Maybe hope.

Hope-because it happened so many times before they ever did anything about it.

It has to be panic.

Because even in the comfort of their home, they're both standing.

Amara clings tightly to her mother's dress, just above the knees.

"You're mom must've been a model," someone once said.
She's tall. She's beautiful.
She's never been anything but her mother.

And Amara will wonder, years later,
If they'd still say that. If they saw her then

Scared.
Worried.
Waiting.

Amara knows crying doesn't help. Only makes it worse.
So today- no tears.
No screaming.
Just tension.

Wondering what it will be this time. There's always something.
Too much salt. Too little salt. The plate. Her dress.
Something he tells himself to justify the blows. The kicks. The hair pulling.
And it never makes sense. They eat the same food- they try-and it tastes just fine.

But he always finds something.

Maybe today I'll fight back, Amara thinks. Try the Taekwondo move we learned at school. Won't work. He's huge.
I should've brought sand instead. Why didn't I think of that sooner?
Next time.

What they both don't know is
there won't be a next time.