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I won’t cry anymore.

I walk back into my room when something catches my eye. I retrieve the box from under my bed. It contains stuff that reminds me of the days when life was good. I look at my baby pictures, some with my dad and some with my mom. They looked happy when they had me.

I pick up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, my first-ever paperback. My mother bought it for my eighth birthday after weeks of me begging her. I remember I read the book in a day, then read it all over again. I pleaded with her to buy me the second book, but she didn’t. She never did, and I stopped asking. I didn’t have money to buy the rest of the series myself and I didn’t read it by lending it from the library because I wanted to own it.

Putting the book aside, I look at the bead bracelets. When I was little I used to make them. Since I was alone all the time, I had nothing better to do. My mother bought me a set that had many colorful beads, strings, and little instruments to build a bracelet. Every night, I’d get to work after dinner and stay up until I’d be done.

I pick up the bracelets and look at the size of them. They won’t fit me now, but still pull a smile out of me.

The longer I play with the beads, the more my head chants an idea that sounds insane like Hogwarts-existing-in-real-life insane.

Saturday is cleaning day.Mom will scrub the floors, do laundry, and clean every inch of the house. She doesn’t rest for a second and keeps herself busy until she’s exhausted and passes out. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s her way of mourning the sadness that came with Dad’s departure. I can’t understand how she misses a man like him. All he ever did was hurt her.

It’s late in the afternoon when I find her in the living room, dusting the corners to get rid of the cobwebs. She’s dressed in an old T-shirt that belongs to Dad and faded jeans. Once she’s done, she hops down from the stool. She pauses when she sees their wedding picture covered in dust. Picking it up, she cleans it. Her eyes fill with tears and her hand trembles over the glass.

“Mom?”

She sniffles and wipes away the tears.

“I’m fine, honey.” She puts it down, but her gaze doesn’t avert from it. “I wish he’d come back. I miss him so much.”

My heart skips a few beats.

Thisis the reason why I can’t tell her about Dad. If she knew, she’d want him to move back, despite what happened the last time. In the past three months, it’s all she’s talked about. She thinks he’s changed and won’t hurt her anymore, because he loves her and will get better for her.

Love isn’t abuse. Love isn’t tears. Love isn’t betrayal.

Books have taught me that love is supposed to be this magical, pure, sweet thing that makes you feel safe.Itwants you to be better.Itprotects you and keeps you safe. I know it’s all fictional and made-up, but even if it is, that's the kind of love I wish for myself. What my parents have isn’t the love I want.

Mom composes herself and turns to me. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

“Did you take the money from the top of the refrigerator?”

Memories from that evening reappear. I refuse to sink into that sadness.

It’s been three days, and the marks have faded completely, but not the event from my mind.

“Yes. I wanted to buy a few books.” There’s no way I’m telling her about Dad.

She shakes her head in disappointment. “Honey, youcan’tbuy books. You know how expensive they are. Why do you need to buy them when you can borrow from the library using your library card?”

A lump grows and constricts my throat. Mom knows I love books, but she always refrains me from buying them and gives me this exact speech every single time.

As a reader, I want toownbooks. Enjoy the feeling of holding a paperback and annotating it. But I can’t because I can’t afford it.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

Mom sighs and rubs her temple. “It was our emergency stack.”

I fidget with my fingers, something I do when I’m anxious.

“I didn’t mean to.” I try not to look at her as she glares at me.

“Your focus should be on studies, not on stupid books that are unrealistic and just a waste of time and money.” She raises her voice.

My stomach ties in a series of knots pulling my guts together in a painful tug. I shift on my feet as tears prick my eyes. I refuse to cry anymore. I’ve shed plenty of tears in the past three nights.

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