Chapter 4: Sinking in the Whirlpool

That foster aunt, Angela, was brought back. She was back before I could even understand why she'd left.

It was pouring outside, and she was soaked through. She wore Dad’s shirt over shorts, her long bare legs dangling as Dad carried her in. The rain left puddles on the hardwood, and her hair stuck to her cheeks.

She said pitifully, “Lisa, I’m sorry. It’s only because Mark didn’t want me to leave that I stayed. I promise, as soon as I’m better, I’ll go.” Her voice was soft, her hands twisted in the hem of Dad's shirt.

Her words sounded reasonable. Almost rehearsed, but they made sense in the moment.

But my chest felt tight. Like someone had wrapped a rubber band around my heart.

I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. The words tangled in my throat, stuck behind fear.

That night, I fell asleep and was woken by Mom’s tears soaking my cheeks, the sheets damp and cold where she held me. Her sobs were so quiet, almost apologetic, as if she was sorry for disturbing me.

I didn’t move at all, just listened to her soft crying:

“I said I didn’t want her to stay? If I said it, I’d admit it, but I didn’t, so why put those words on me? Why do you think I can’t tolerate her? Mark, is that really how you see me?” Her words shuddered with pain.

I wanted to say, “No.” My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

But when I opened my mouth, it was as if the story had stolen my voice—not a word would come out. It felt like trying to shout underwater, every word bubbling up and vanishing before it reached the surface.

Only after the urge to comfort Mom faded did that terrifying, puppet-like feeling slowly disappear. I lay there, helpless, wishing I could fix everything and not knowing how.

Later, this happened several more times. Each time, it left me more frustrated, more afraid.

I realized I couldn’t do anything to change the plot. The story was a river, and we were just drifting.

We were all caught in the story’s whirlpool. It spun us around, faster and faster, no way out.

A single drop of water trying to escape a whirlpool is a little too optimistic. I was just a kid, powerless against the current.

But that was my mom. She never stopped trying.

My gentle, kind mom. The kind of mom who left Post-its in my lunchbox and always remembered which stuffed animal I needed to sleep.

She was so pure and good. Always choosing kindness, even when it hurt.

She would read me stories, clean my scraped knees with peroxide, get up early to make me pancakes, drag herself up at night to tuck me in, and rush me to the ER when I was sick. Her hands always warm, her words soothing.

She was so good. Better than any storybook character.

She didn’t deserve to be misunderstood or bullied. It made my blood boil, made me want to scream.

I, this tiny drop of water, really wanted to see what it felt like to swim against the current. Just once, to break free, to change the story for her.