I sit in my apartment, listening to the rain softly hitting the roof. No one else in the building is still awake. I remember what my mother used to say to me every night before bed.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow is another big day.”
Her words still echo in my head. They are some of the only remaining memories I have of her. There are photos of us together as a family, with me, my dad and her, but none of them really connect. They had been fighting for a while. I woke up one night and heard them, so I crept downstairs. Eventually, they noticed me watching them and tried to pretend that nothing was happening, but I had heard enough. I knew what was going to happen.
When she left, it devastated my father. He became depressed, and didn’t want to go to work. I convinced him to take an odd job here and there. There was never quite enough money. College was a relief to me, an escape line out of the world I was trapped in.
I should take her words to heart and go to bed. After all, tomorrow is another big day.