She pulled the duvet closer and sunk in the soft comfort. She really did not want to wake up and face the day. All she wanted was to hide there in the warmth and rest.
A high-pitched, malevolent laughter started to ring in her ears. The mean person inside her was right. She was just hurting herself by allowing such fantasies to take shape.
She would never do it. She would never hide from her life there. Her sense of duty was too strong and her anxiety too far reaching.
She heard the door squeak slowly and peeked out from under the covers. Two green eyes were watching her from the door frame.
‘Mommy, I am hungry.’
As if the train conductor hit a signal her mind quieted down instantly and she went into carer mode.
She threw the duvet off her, jumped out of bed and with her youngest daughter headed to the kitchen.
For the rest of the day she forgot herself. Feed the children, drive them places, do the shopping, clean the house, be polite and political with the neighbors.
When she was back in bed she felt drained and numb. Unable to have an original thought or to built herself up.
She felt guilty and selfish. She was getting so much for the work she was doing. Her children were her life and she knew that without them there would be no her. And yet, at the same time, sometimes, when she was lying in bed, the fantasy of just hiding there would get hold of her with an intensity that was scary at times.
It felt like this urge came from deep inside her, from a place unknown to her, hidden in the folds of her being. She could not understand it and the contradiction it posed to her waking hours feelings puzzled her.
‘Granny!’
Every time her mother visited the girls were bouncing around with happiness. She would bring presents, make pancakes listening to their stories and would out right adore them.
‘Are you ok?’
She got annoyed sometimes by the question. Of course she was ok, wasn’t it obvious. What an empty question to ask!
‘Let’s sit, I want to give you something.’
Her first instinct was to push back. She had no time to lounge around.
When they were sat on the couch, with the girls doing arts and crafts at the kitchen table, her mother took her hands and forced her to look at her.
‘I want you to have this.’
And on opening her hand a small St. Bridget silver cross was revealed.
She did not get the chance to react because her mother went on.
‘This belonged to your grandmother, then your auntie, then me and now you. When you are done with it you can give it to your sisters or even your daughters.’
‘I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do with it?’, she was truly puzzled and a bit surprised by her mother’s sudden religiousness. Her mother most often had very stern views about the church.
‘Nothing, just keep it. Hold it. It has been held by the women in our family when they needed support the most and it is charged with all their stories, their dreams and hopes, their fears and desires.’
She looked down at the little silver St. Bridget’s cross and for some unknown reason she felt a connection to it and felt soothed by the smooth, shiny surface.
‘Thank you mom!’, and a hug sealed the exchange.
When he mother was leaving they said good bye and then the girls kept jumping up and down demanding kisses and hugs.
‘Granny you dropped this!’
She did not see what it was, as her mother took the little paper and shoved it in her pocket.
That night she fell asleep watching the little cross and thinking about all those women before her that had done so much. She was one of them. She could also do that. And that thought helped her drift off in a restful sleep.
Her mother, when she was was walking away from her daughter’s house and found herself at a safe distance pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and looked at it satisfied.
It was a receipt from Carrolls gift shop for a silver St. Bridget’s cross.
She smoothed it out and put it in her purse.
Pleased with herself she bobbed down the street.
History in the making.
… and she laughed a quiet, benevolent kind of laughter.
You got a typo in "sliver"