Page 211 of Invisible Bars
Shellie’s expression shifted to one of astonishment, her brows furrowing in surprise.
“Really? Well, fuck you too then, Miss Hollywood!” she shot back, her tone laced with indignation.
I turned back around, rolling my eyes dismissively at her words.
“I swear, everybody is still stuck in the same spot,” I muttered to myself as I approached the porch.
Despite my complex feelings about my mother’s home, I had to admit that the exterior looked surprisingly decent. The grass had been neatly cut and the bushes were well-shaped, resembling miniature hedges that framed the path. A new welcome mat lay at the entrance, its cheerful message reading, “Come in blessed, leave better.”
“Of course she’d have something like this at her doorstep,” I mumbled.
It was clean… and cared for. I guess that would do.
I knocked once, then let myself in like I always did.
“Ohhhhhhh, Mother!” I called out, setting the perfectly wrapped gifts on the brown coffee table.
The smell hit me immediately: something fried—probably chicken—mingling with the sharp, citrusy scent of lemon cleaner. It was the unmistakable aroma of her house; a familiar blend that had remained unchanged for the last twenty years, evoking a strange nostalgia.
I cringed at the living room setup. Lace doilies covered every surface like they were protecting priceless antiques—except there were no antiques, just chipped end tables and an old lamp with a crooked shade. Faded family photos lined the walls, most in mismatched frames, some tilted like they’d given up trying to hang straight. And those rust-colored curtains—they were still there, heavy and thick, bathing the room in a perennial dusk. Mother washed themreligiouslyto make sure they were free of dust and stains, but she stubbornly refused to replace them, insisting they “still had life.”
The television, a small 32-inch box from a bygone era, sat confidently on a bulky wooden stand like it was a 70-inch flat screen. Its volume was cranked up, blaring some courtroom drama—of course. Mother never missed her “stories,” even when they were real.
I glanced around and had to stop myself from sighing too loud.
Nothing was dusty, dirty, or out of place; it just wasn’tmine.
And maybe that was the problem.
At home, my living room was all glass and stone—neutral tones, minimalist lines, custom pieces flown in from Italy. My TV was seventy-five inches and mounted so perfectly it looked like it grew out of the wall. The floors were not only perfectly even, but they also lacked any creaks, leading to an enchanting, hushed environment. In stark contrast, my mother's house decor was charmingly outdated, with a bowl of peppermints sitting on the coffee table—candies that likely hadn’t been replaced since Barack Obama was in office.
I loved my mother—I really did—but every time I stepped in her house, I felt like I was walking into a thrift store basement or a preserved memory she refused to let go of.
Mother finally came around the corner smiling—until she saw me.
“Well, if it isn’t my holiday and birthday visitor.” That was her sarcastic greeting.
Mother wiped her hands on a towel like she’d been elbow-deep in something greasy.
“Happy birthday, Mother!” I expressed, stepping into our usual routine of two air kisses, cheek to cheek.
I pulled back and eyed her outfit.
A faded purple muumuu hung off her like a curtain barely clinging to a rod. It was printed with sunflowers, one sleeve sliding lower than the other, and her house shoes were those fuzzy leopard-print ones with the heel nearly flattened from years of wear.
“You look… comfortable,” I said, forcing a smile.
Mother grinned like she’d won a prize.
“As a pair of fur slippers. Plus, I’m breathing and fashion never paid my bills, made me happy or kept me breathing—so I’ll take it.”
We sat down, and I barely made it two minutes before I lost my composure.
“Mother, I can’t take this!” I exclaimed, scanning the room in horror. “You still got that same couch with the plastic on it. Why won’t you let me hire a decorator?”
She rolled her eyes and crossed one leg over the other, which made the muumuu shift in ways it shouldn’t have.
“I already had this discussion with Imanio, so now I’m telling you. Unless this house catches fire, floods, or gets picked up by a tornadosent by God himself,I ain’t moving. And even then, I might just ride it out in the bathtub with my Bible and a pork chop. Lastly, I'm sure as hell not having some strangers rearranging my house. It’s fine just the way it is. If you don’t like it, you can leave—or just sit in misery.”
