- Home Sweet Homeby Sasha
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Valerie goes home for a few days to rest.
A Leaf on the Wind
: Home Sweet Home by Sasha
Valerie goes home for a few days rest.

Sexually abused as a child Valerie deveoples serious psychologial problems as an adult. Eventually hospitalized she is diagnosed with PTSD and BPD. After another hospitalization for an injury that ne

"What motivates me is seeing people in the crowd and wondering what they're going home to and what they're dealing with, and knowing that for the time being we're their escape."

~Hayley Williams

I pulled into the driveway and parked my car behind Mom’s big old Lincoln. I felt another wave of panic come over me. I took several deep breaths before I got out of the car. The back door was open and I went inside without knocking. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table and before I had a chance to speak, she asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee. 

Too nervous to speak, I simply nodded. 

I sat down at the table. My heart was beating so loud I could hardly hear myself think and my mind raced from thought to thought. This is a big mistake, I told myself. What am I doing here? What was I thinking? If I am smart, I will get up and leave right now! I took a deep breath and told myself to stop panicking. Don’t be stupid. I can handle a few days here. 

Mom placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of me. Normally I hated black coffee, but my inability to manipulate the spoon, sugar bowl, and pitcher of cream with my bandaged hands forced me to drink my coffee black. 

Mom finally spoke. 

“We were worried when we came back to the motel room and found you were gone,” Mom said. 

It took every ounce of my strength to stop myself yelling at her. 

Instead, I smiled and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t in the mood for talking.” 

“Where did you go?” She asked. 

“I drove myself to the hospital where I spent the last two weeks.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

Mom’s zero power of observation never ceased to amaze me. 

“For Christ’s sake mom, couldn’t you see I was sick?” 

“You looked tired, that’s all.” 

Mom had not changed a bit. She still only saw what she wanted to see. Feeling the years of rage start to build inside me I thought it best not to talk any more. 

“Would you mind if I took a shower?” I begged. 

“You don’t have to ask for permission,” Mom said quietly. “Think of this as your home.” 

After taking a shower, I applied the ointment the doctor had given me, re-bandaged my hands, gathered up my dirty clothes and put them into the hamper. I went into Mom’s bedroom to find something clean to wear. 

Mom’s room was beautiful. At the foot of her bed was a large bay window that looked out over the back yard. On the left side of the room was a small fireplace, and on the other side of the room was a private bathroom connected to a small dressing room. I walked over to the window and looked outside. Mom was on her hands and knees weeding the garden. She was dressed in an old pair of blue jeans and a peach colored turtleneck shirt. I smiled seeing her knee high black rubber boots that were obviously too big for her. 

She looked good for a sixty-nine year-old woman. 

I had forgotten how beautiful Mom was. Her stunning platinum hair accented her flawless skin. She didn’t have the wrinkles you would expect for someone her age. She didn’t look a day over fifty.
For a brief moment the love I once felt for her resurfaced, pushing aside a lifetime of hatred. I shook my head and told myself to snap out of it. I had to keep myself focused. Rehashing old issues was a waste of time. Besides, I did not intend to stay that long. 

I was tired. I lay on the bed in the loft and slept soundly until I woke to the smell of food cooking in the kitchen. I went downstairs where I found Mom in the kitchen fixing dinner. She poured a glass of white wine and handed it to me. I didn’t particularly like wine but I appreciated the gesture. We ate in silence then, after clearing the table, we went into the living room to watch television.

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Author Notes
The decision to move back home was made out of desperation. The prospect of spending another night sleeping in my car and the condition of my hands make seeing Mom a viable option. My mother and I worked diligently to avoid subjects that would turn into arguments. However, the tension was always there.


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