Mom Strikes Back: Declare War On Those Who Look Down On Her

Mom always got labeled as a woman who couldn't have sons.

She never managed to have a son, and my grandmother mocked her for years until she finally drove her out.

But then Mom got herself a car and started living it up on her own.

Eventually, Grandma was practically on her knees, begging Mom to come back and make amends.

Without batting an eye, Mom changed my last name, severing all ties with the Wilson family.

1

My mom was a woman who couldn't have sons.

At over forty, she always seemed bent over, clad in dull, gray clothes and oversized, tattered shoes.

In our small town, she went about quietly, yet everyone had a good word to say about her when she came up in conversation.

"That Mrs. Wilson, truly a capable hand."

2

"You barren old hen, we feed you, we house you, and all you do is sit around like you're waiting to die!"

"Ignoring the pigs, neglecting the chickens, you're nothing but a curse on this house!"

Grandma's tirades filled the house no matter what Mom did; she could never do right by her.

Mom's eyes were icy when she looked at Grandma, loaded with a bitterness I could never grasp.

Dumping pig feed into an old sack, Mom would chop it with vigor, the cleaver ringing out as it hit.

Grandma's face went pale at that.

She'd storm out to the porch, grab the dog's bowl, and start clanging it loudly.

"Come out and see this! The crazy bitch's gone and killed someone!"

"Misfortune upon us! We're all cursed!"

It didn't take long for a crowd of nosy neighbors and concerned relatives to gather.

People whispered and pointed, and some went to fetch Dad from the construction site.

Dad arrived looking like he'd been through a storm, picking Grandma up with dutiful air, then harshly dragging Mom inside.

The echoes of cries and curses filled the air of my eight-year-old existence.

3

With the new policy letting families have a second child, the old "one is enough" motto faded away.

Grandma did a complete 180.

"Fiona, the laws have changed, and so should you. Try for another baby, give your husband a son while you still can."

"Look at your sister-in-law's son—he's already helping out like a little man. How can you bear to let your husband's line end?"

Grandma's plea fell on deaf ears; Mom wasn't having any of it.

"Over my dead body! The Wilsons can kiss their lineage goodbye for all I care."

Mom held the spatula like a weapon, her gaze at Grandma full of scorn.

Grandma looked uneasy for a moment.

"I never meant any harm—it was the busy season... Who would've thought Lily would end up near the furnace?"

"You know darn well whether she went there on her own or not."

With that, Mom slammed down the spatula, grabbed me by the hand, and we left the village behind.

I knew about the little grave on the hill just outside our town—it was my sister Lily's.

Mom had fought tooth and nail to bring her into this world.

And when Grandma saw another girl, she wanted to end it right there.

Covered in blood, Mom had risen from her bed, threatening her own life to save Lily's.

Once Lily arrived, every penny was spent on penalties, and Grandma became stingier than ever.

She gave Mom just one meal a day during her recovery, which left her ghostly pale and Lily constantly wailing from hunger.

I, only six, would secretly forage for wild greens to cook into broth for Mom. Those days were as bitter as the taste that lingered in my mouth.

Seeing she couldn't sway Mom, Grandma turned her attention to me.

"Shirley, wouldn't you like a little brother? He'd watch out for you."

"A brother? No thanks. I don't need one."

I knew early on what it meant to be born a girl in this family.

Little Susie next door told me once she'd strangle her brother if she ever got the chance, tired of being punished whenever he cried.

No matter how Grandma coaxed, Mom stood her ground.

Eventually, Grandma stopped putting on a friendly face and spent her nights whispering poison into Dad's ear.

4

That evening, Dad staggered home, reeking of cheap booze.

He grabbed Mom, who was still out hanging laundry, and dragged her inside as I screamed in the background.

"Stop! Don't hurt her!"

But Grandma clamped down on me with her iron grip, impervious to my struggles.

"Quit your blubbering, kid. Your mom's making you a brother."

My protest earned me a slap that knocked the wind out of me, Grandma's rough hand leaving a burning sensation across my cheek.

Darkness enveloped me briefly; I tasted blood and felt a fiery sting on my face.

When I stopped crying, I just curled up into a ball on the ground.

Dawn broke and I found myself getting up, numbness replacing the pain in my swollen face.

Barefoot, I ran into the house.

There was a foul odor inside, and Dad was already off to work.

I approached Mom cautiously; she lay there, lifeless, staring up at the ceiling.

The fear was overwhelming; I couldn't even cry, just managed a shaky whisper.

"Mom?"

She slowly came to, her eyes watering as she touched my swollen cheek.

"Mom, it's okay. I'm not hurting anymore. Don't cry."

I fumbled with her tears, trying to dry them, but they just kept coming, and soon I was crying alongside her.

Our sobs alerted Grandma, who barged in, wielding a feed scoop and launching into a tirade.

"What's with all this noise first thing in the morning? Get up and feed the pigs!"

"Keep acting up, and I'll send this little troublemaker away too!"

Mom stayed silent, her face hidden by her disheveled hair, but her grip on my hand tightened.

Eventually, she picked up the feed scoop and, with me in tow, made her way down to the riverbank to cut more pig feed.

Down by the river, she held me close, rolling a warm, hard-boiled egg across my bruised face.

I grimaced and hissed through the pain.

"Eat up and grow strong, Shirley. You need to."

I nodded, determined.

I needed to grow up fast—to be able to protect Mom.

After we finished by the river, Mom lingered for a while before pulling out a black plastic bottle and tossing it into the flowing water.

It drifted away, but Mom seemed forever anchored to this spot, unable to move on.

5

As I neared home, I could already see the crowd at the front gate and Grandma's curses echoing down the street.

"Reading, huh? What's a girl gonna do with books? Might as well stay home and tend to the pigs!"

The village chairman stood at the door, his face a mask of displeasure, while Grandma spewed her venom, hands on hips.

The neighbors were all there too, buzzing with gossip and curiosity.

Mom released my hand and fought her way through, a look of shame facing the village chairman as Grandma continued her tirade.

"Mrs. Wilson, Shirley's at the right age to start school. Maybe you could try getting through to your mother-in-law. Education's important for her future."

Mom's eyes, once dull, lit up with determination as she nodded vigorously.

I was ready for school, but Grandma flat-out refused the idea of a girl being educated.

That evening, before dinner could even hit the table, Grandma was already laying into Dad.

"Jack, what's the point of schooling for her? We've got plenty of chores she could be doing here."

"Girls end up leaving home anyway—why waste money on her education?"

Grandma rambled on, and Dad just sat there, drowning in his beer, nodding along like a good little soldier.

Such a perfect display of maternal affection and filial piety.

Eventually, Dad laid down the law.

"Education's worthless. She's not going."

Right then, Mom walked in with a platter of food, which crashed to the floor at Dad's decree.

"Damned fool, what are you doing to us?"

As Grandma hurled insults, Mom's eyes were fiery, and her voice was steel.

"She will go to school. I'm sending Shirley, no matter what."

Grandma looked like she'd seen a ghost.

"You wouldn't dare defy me!"

Even little me got bold.

"I want to go to school! I'm going!"

Grandma snapped, lunging forward with her spoon aimed right at me.

It struck me right in the eye, the pain searing through me. I covered my eye and screamed.

Mom tried to reach me, but Grandma kicked Dad as if to say, "Get her!'

"If she won't listen, beat some sense into her!"

Dad, still tipsy, lurched towards Mom again.

The house filled once more with the sounds of arguing and swearing until Mom, bloodied and fierce, stormed out of the kitchen with a knife in hand.

"I'm getting Shirley into school, or I swear it's the end for all of us!"

She clutched me tightly, her back straightening, her face resolute.

The onlookers circled, watching, not daring to intervene.

Until a voice cut through the tension.

"Jack, if you don't send her to school, you're looking at jail time. It's free now, won't cost you much."

Dad glanced between Mom and my bleeding eye, torn.

After a long, painful silence, he nodded. "Alright."

Clang!

The knife clattered to the ground. Mom scooped me up and we fled.

Blood streamed down my face, too much blood.

As we walked away, Mom loomed larger than life against the backdrop of the fields.

6

At the local clinic, Mom was on her knees pleading with the doctor, and then the director. That day, all I saw was blood and the image of Mom's bent knees and hunched back.

Her spine seemed to curve more with each passing moment.

Mom wasn't a hero, but her love was both humble and heroic.

Finally, touched by her plight, the director personally attended to my injuries.

Luckily, my eye was saved, though it always seemed like I was looking through a haze.

The night before school started, Mom spent a long time in Grandma's room. I don't know what she said to convince that stubborn old lady to let me go to school.

The next day, Mom handed me new shoes and a backpack she'd sewn herself and sent me on my way to school.

But from that day forward, I wasn't allowed to sleep next to Mom anymore. I had to sleep on a makeshift bed on the floor in Grandma's room.

Every night thereafter, the sounds of Mom's tears and Dad's angry shouts would drift from their room.

Before I knew it, I was in the third grade, struggling because I couldn't see well, which kept me lagging behind my classmates.

I also learned a lot more than just book smarts—like how Grandma used my education as leverage to pressure Mom into trying for a son.

Each night's torment was endured by Mom so that I could sit in a classroom each day.

When I saw the bruises on Mom's body, I angrily stomped on my textbooks.

"Mom, I can stop going to school if it means you don't have to sleep with Dad anymore. Please?"

Mom didn't answer. Instead, she spanked me for the first time ever.

I resented her then, and I despised Dad and Grandma even more. Why did I have to grow up in such a messed-up family?

I felt trapped, but Mom still had choices.

That day, when the village phone rang, the community leader braved the pouring rain to fetch Mom for an urgent call.

Her hands trembled as she spoke in a language I didn't understand, and suddenly, tears were streaming down her face.

The community leader took me to another room, handing me a shiny red apple, while outside the rain continued to pour down.

Even the downpour couldn't muffle the sound of Mom's sobbing.

I sat there, clutching the apple, utterly bewildered.

"You've got such a wonderful mom, facing tough odds. Shirley, you've got to focus on your studies, make something of yourself, and someday, give your mom the life she deserves."

I nodded solemnly, watching the relentless rain spill from the roof.

At that moment, my resolve to succeed in school solidified; it seemed my only way out.

Once the rain stopped, Mom held me close as we walked down the muddy path.

She spoke softly about home, her voice filled with longing.

"Shirley, Grandma Dora called. She said the lychees are ripe, dropping all over the yard, too many to eat."

"And the jackfruit tree is so laden, Uncle Tim nearly got knocked out when he went out there last night."

"Grandma Dora's been feeling poorly. She asked me to come visit. She's always worried about me, ever since I moved so far away."

Her voice cracked as she spoke, and soon, she was crying again.

After that day, Mom threw herself into her work with renewed vigor, not just at home but taking any job she could—harvesting, digging, hauling bricks—anything to scrape together every penny.

By the end of the year, she had secretly saved up nine hundred dollars, tucked away in an old coat at the bottom of her trunk, her nest egg for a trip back home.

Mom had originally come from far out west to marry into our family here in the hills. Dad had met her while he was out on a construction job.

Young and in love, they believed nothing could stand in their way. Despite her family's objections, Mom married Dad and moved hundreds of miles to be with him.

She never expected that the kind, seemingly straightforward man she married would turn out to be utterly dominated by his mother.

After the wedding, Grandma took control and Dad showed his true colors—he was lazy and wholly devoted to his mother.

Disheartened, Mom considered leaving but then discovered she was pregnant with me. She spent many nights crying, torn between leaving and staying.

In the end, she decided to stay, putting away the suitcase she had secretly packed, determined to raise me.

It had been almost ten years since she left her own family, ten years of slow and difficult days, and now she was finally preparing to visit them again.

The first time she went back was when she was pregnant with me, homesick to the point of illness. Grandma worried she'd lose the baby if Mom didn't calm down, so Dad took her back for a brief visit.

And just like that, ten years had slipped by.

In the days leading up to her departure, Mom was unusually cheerful, her face brighter, even humming as she worked.

She bought me new clothes and bright ribbons for my hair, making sure I was clean and neat.

But when she went to pack her suitcase, digging into the bottom of the trunk, her face turned ghostly pale.

The money was gone.