Chapter 2: Chores, Challenges, and Quiet Love

Mom’s face was cold. "Mind your own damn business!"

She said it with a steely calm that made the room go quiet. You could tell she meant every word.

She pulled me into the house and slammed the door. "These busybodies drive me nuts."

Her hands were rough and warm on my shoulders. The slam of the door felt like a shield, keeping the world out. I always felt safer when Mom was angry on my behalf.

At dinner, Mom stared at me. "I’m sending you to school, so you better work hard. When you make it, you gotta pay me back and take care of me when I’m old."

She tried to sound tough, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was her way of showing love—expecting big things from me, believing I could do more. Deal.

I nodded hard.

I made a silent promise then and there: I wouldn’t let her down. Not after everything she’d done for me.

Every day after school, I went down to the creek to cut grass for the pigs. After that, I came home to cook. There was always endless work in the fields: planting corn, spraying for bugs, pulling weeds, and more. (Sometimes we’d pick up feed at the county co-op or check the prize pigs at the county fair.)

I’d come home with my shoes caked in mud, my arms scratched from the corn stalks. The work was never-ending, but I knew it was just what had to be done. It was our way of life.

And all those chores fell on Mom’s shoulders.

She never complained, never asked for help, but I saw how tired she was. Her hands were always cracked, her back always a little bent by the end of the day.

I finally understood why Mom had such a temper.

It was the kind of anger that comes from carrying too much for too long. Now I saw it for what it was—a shield, not a weapon.

She carried the weight of the whole family, barely able to breathe.

I’d watch her sometimes, standing at the kitchen sink after dark, her shoulders sagging. She’d catch me looking and bark, “What are you staring at?” but I could tell she was just tired.

But even so, Mom would buy me a popsicle in the hot summer.

She’d come home with a grocery bag, the cold popsicle already sweating in the heat, and hand it to me like it was treasure.

"Go, share it with your brother. Half each."

She always made sure we split everything down the middle, even the smallest treat. Fairness was her law.

"Mom, you eat first." I held the popsicle to her mouth.

I wanted her to have a taste, just once. She always acted annoyed, but I knew she liked that I offered.

She snorted, "I don’t like this stuff. It’s just to keep you kids happy."

But the way her eyes softened told a different story. She couldn’t hide her affection, no matter how hard she tried.

Mom said so, and so did my brother.

Neither of them would ever take the first bite. It was always me, holding the melting treat, feeling guilty and grateful all at once.

In the end, I ate the whole popsicle myself.

It dripped down my fingers, sticky and sweet, and for a moment, I forgot about everything else.

That night, I ended up with a stomachache.

It hurt so bad I thought I might throw up. I curled up on the couch, clutching my belly, feeling like I’d swallowed a block of ice.

In the middle of the night, Mom carried me across the ridge to the old town doctor.

She didn’t hesitate, just wrapped me in a blanket and hoisted me up like I weighed nothing. The walk was long, the night air thick with crickets and the scent of wildflowers. Mom’s arms never shook once.

Mom grumbled, "I knew it—too many popsicles and your stomach would hurt."

She muttered it half to herself, half to me, but there was no real anger—just worry. Her voice was softer in the dark.

I pinched my clothes and lowered my head.

I felt small and guilty, wishing I could make it up to her somehow. I promised myself I’d never be so careless again.

"Next time the ice cream truck comes, don’t ask for one."

Her tone was stern, but I knew she’d probably buy me another anyway. That’s just how she was.

Mom pouted, "Next time we go to town, I’ll buy you an ice cream cone. They say cones taste better than popsicles. Who knows if those popsicles from the gas station are even clean."

She always found a way to make things better, even when she was scolding me. I could picture her already planning our next trip to town, just to see me smile.

Finally, she added, "No fancy stomachs in this house, but you’ve got a delicate one. How come I don’t get sick from popsicles?"

She winked at me, trying to lighten the mood. I couldn’t help but laugh, even through the pain.

In September, when school started, Mom really sent me to school.

She dressed me in the best hand-me-downs she could find, smoothed my hair, and walked me to the bus stop herself. I’ll never forget the pride in her eyes that morning.

I was fascinated by the smell of ink in new books. It was like the scent of knowledge, the taste of learning—I couldn’t get enough. That plasticky new-book smell, the glue, the promise.

I’d flip through the crisp pages, breathing in that new-book smell, my heart racing with excitement. The world suddenly seemed so much bigger than Maple Heights.

I started half a semester behind my classmates, so I was behind in my studies.

I’d sit in class, staring at the blackboard, feeling lost and overwhelmed. Every lesson felt like a mountain I had to climb.

When I opened the second semester’s first grade reader, there were lots of new words I didn’t know.

I’d trace the letters with my finger, whispering the sounds to myself, determined to catch up no matter what.

Whenever I had time, I’d look for our class rep—the top kid with pigtails. She was a girl with pigtails, big round eyes, and a dimple when she smiled.

She was patient and kind, never once making me feel stupid for asking questions. Her smile made even the hardest words seem possible.

She would carefully write out the sounds for me and teach me how to read each word.

Sometimes we’d sit under the big oak tree at recess, her voice gentle as she guided me through each syllable. I was grateful for her friendship.

The teacher seemed to like students like me who weren’t afraid to ask questions.

She’d give me an encouraging nod every time I raised my hand. I started to feel like maybe I belonged after all.

When the midterm results came out, I got a 99 in English and 100 in Math. I ran home with my test papers.

I couldn’t wait to show Mom. My heart pounded as I raced down our dirt road, the papers clutched tight in my hand, dust rising behind me.

Before I even reached the door, I started shouting.

"Mom, Mama, Mom!"

My voice echoed through the house, bouncing off the faded wallpaper. I wanted her to hear me before she even saw me.

"What are you yelling for?" Mom asked, annoyed.

She tried to sound gruff, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron, waiting for me to explain.

"Look, Mom!" I handed her the test papers.

I held my breath as she scanned the numbers, her brow furrowed in concentration. I could feel my palms sweating.

After she looked them over, her expression softened a little.

The corners of her mouth twitched, and for a moment, I saw pride shining through the tired lines on her face.

Mrs. McCarthy from next door called out, "Tch, it’s only first grade. Give me that test, I could get full marks too, let alone you didn’t even get 100 in English. I’m telling you, sweetheart, girls aren’t as smart as boys. If Ethan hadn’t broken his leg, would you even get to go to school?"

Her voice floated in through the open window, dripping with sarcasm. I braced myself for Mom’s response.

"Why do you talk so much?" Mom glared at Mrs. McCarthy.

She stood a little taller, her eyes flashing. No one could put Mom down, not even Mrs. McCarthy.

"Not bad. Study hard at school. Don’t waste my money."

She ruffled my hair, her tone softer than before. That was her way of saying she was proud.

At dinner, Mom made pot roast in the old Crock-Pot. She put the fatty meat in my brother’s bowl and the lean meat in mine.

The kitchen smelled like home—rich and savory. She always remembered who liked what, even if she pretended not to care.

"Why are you so picky? Eat a popsicle for fifty cents and get a stomachache. Eat fatty meat and want to gag. Hard to please."

She teased me, but I knew she was just trying to make me smile. I picked at my plate, embarrassed but grateful.

I lowered my head and quietly ate my mashed potatoes.