My daughter and I had a fight today. I refused her permission to go to that Maroon 5 concert. She said it was unfair and I said nothing. She said she hated me and I said nothing. She said she’d never speak to me again; `I wondered how long I’d have to wait this time.


I still remember that heavy black coat as it fell on me that winter evening. It fell as it had many times before, yet the consequences of that action differed. 12 years old and easily amused, I would wait after school each day at home for my mother to return from work. Walking in, with her brown leather purse in hand, her lips would part for a toothy smile upon seeing me, surrounded by two perfect dimples, one on each side, as if they were her smile’s bodyguards. She would breathe heavily, as if extremely tired, and take off her huge black coat and fling it on top of me. I’d laugh in glee, as the weight of the coat would drag me down, often giving me chills on the way. But, excited and eager for my mission ahead, I’d scramble up, run to my mother, grab her loosely slung purse and giggle uncontrollably as I ran to discover a new hiding place for it. The hiding place was changed routinely, rotating from underneath the sofa, behind the kitchen curtains, or beneath my bed. My mother would be expecting it, and would shake her head with a knowing smile full of trust that as soon as she’d admit that she had no clue where it is, I’d be satisfied and retrieve her purse, and place it safe and sound back in her hands. It was a daily ritual. A scene of life. It was innocent and harmless, and I wouldn’t even remember it today, 15 years later, if she hadn’t messed up her lines.


That particular evening, I felt the weight and chill of the black cotton coat in excess. My mother’s face was blank that day with only the forehead creases of worry lines present like a clean sheet of paper with only a sentence written on the top. But she still gave me a hasty nod, although toothless, before throwing the coat on top of me as usual. Although I laughed when it hit me, there was not a single trace of a smile on her face. I waited for my cue -- some deep breathing and sighing -- but nothing happened. I should’ve taken the hint, as clearly there was some trouble back stage. But instead, eager to earn those dimples, I sprinted towards her and grabbed her purse. Open half way, the brown purse’s zipper was not on my side as I ended up spilling nearly half of the contents. Credit cards, receipts, and even a few paper bills splattered across the carpet. After the initial gasp upon seeing the consequence of my swift action, I slowly lifted my head, my eyes not willing to look up at her or down at the carpet. When I caught a glance of her, I saw her eyes roll. I struggled to gather everything as quickly as possible. “What ARE you doing? Spilled everything!” she spitted out glaring at me. She shook her head in disapproval as I bit my lip and swallowed, continuing to pick up the credit cards and receipts. Gas Receipt, Grocery bill, HSBC... “For goodness sake, you’re 12 years old now! Why must you act like a first grader?!” she questioned, as if truly confused and unable to comprehend, her eyebrows raised and crinkled looking like two little black worms trying to meet in the center.


“Sorry mama. I didn’t mean to spill everything. But…”, I said before hesitantly letting out a nervous giggle. “Hey, you’ll never find it once I hide it!”


She was not amused, nor impressed. She snatched her purse from me and walked to the kitchen. “Gosh Anaya, start acting your age,” she muttered condescendingly. Still on the floor, I had no desire to get up. I was quite taken back. What had just happened? More than angry, I was confused. We had this little joke, this theatrical performance, every day and now I was acting too young for my age? I was silly? All I did was drop a few things, and now my behavior was considered equivalent to a tiny 1st grader who couldn’t even write his whole name? Wow. I gritted my teeth yet didn’t take any harsh action. I didn’t run up to my bedroom, cry, or run away and never come back. Rather, I did the opposite. I followed her quietly to the table, keeping my mouth shut at all times during our meal and only opening in it to shove in another spoonful of rice.


My relationship with my mother was one -- I was fully aware -- many were envious of. The only person in the world who made fun of me often, yet without hurting my feelings, was my mother and we always had a light hearted, joke filled, enjoyable friendship. Oh, how we’d laugh! Me making fun of her cooking and her of my ability to talk about myself to no end. My friends would always laugh when my mother teased me, telling me afterwards how much they wished their mothers were that “fun.” I would nod as a smile crept upon my face, for my relationship with her was something I was extremely proud of. That black coat falling on me was just another example of this relationship. Just another example.


The day after our clash, she came home and flung that black coat on me. Without a smile, or even an acknowledging nod, I slowly picked it off with just my thumb and index finger as if it was a disgusting old sweaty t-shirt and laid it onto the sofa beside me. “Hey! Aren’t you going to hide my purse? So I’ll never be able to find it?” she challenged, grinning with twinkling eyes. Ha, she’s acting as if nothing even happened! I shook my head, murmured something quietly about math homework, and walked away. We didn’t talk the entire day until dinner, when I uttered my last five words of the day to her: “Pass me the chicken please.”

And that word count was not that far from the daily average that I spoke to my mother for not only the next few days next few months, but rather, the next few years. For 5 years, I neglected my mother. I avoided interaction, did not joke, did not kid, did not make her laugh. She tried constantly to get “us” back and built up our old relationship, but I was convinced that our relationship was now forever going to be dented. Our relationship soon began to rust due to the lack of use. And it remained that way, until my sister’s wedding finally brought us together.


Every time I think of her, the single word “regret” echoes repeatedly, ringing again and again in my head. So loud. Losing a parent is hard enough, but forgetting my mistake is harder. Regret is a powerful emotion. It has a destructive property that can suck all happiness out of you and leave only sadness and despair as your fate. And for me, regret in bundles was inevitable. Regret at not forgiving the most important person in my life. Regret at wasting 5 precious years, which now I would do anything to get back. Regret for the loss of all those amazing memories I could’ve made.


I miss you mama. I wish you were here, and I wish I had forgiven you. I’m not going to let my daughter make the same mistake I did with you, mama. After I told her our story, she promised to never stop speaking to me altogether. To never do what I did. Forget 5 years, I won’t lose another 5 minutes mama. Not another 5 minutes.