I found her memory where she left it, crumpled by the foot of the bed, dust bunnies collecting in the grooves she’d made on the paper after squeezing it in her fist.

I didn’t think this was how I’d learn about her; how I’d finally come to understand the women who had inhabited this house, this room, for 30 long years, only to vanish in the middle of the night, fresh tire marks on the gravel, the rosebush we’d planted together squashed flat. 

It still felt like prying. She’d always tell me not to pry; not to peek through her half-closed door as she tried on outfits for her dates, not to listen to her breathing in the night, a reminder that I wasn’t alone. We lived under the same roof for many years never quite living together. I tiptoed around her, afraid of what might happen if she saw me while wearing one of her other faces. And if there was something I knew for certain about my mother was that she had many faces. I didn’t quite understand it at first, what this meant. She used to tell me about them when I was little, when she still had enough patience to put on her mom face as I was walking in the door from school.  

I brought the memory out of her room, not wanting to disturb the way she’d left it in case she decided to come back—it wouldn’t be unheard of, no, at least it shouldn’t. At last, I was alone, finally abandoned by the father that never wanted me and the mother that couldn’t stand me. I sat at our kitchen table, the dark mahogany greyed by the years and the sun and the many times I’d spilled food and water on its surface, and stretched the memory out, clean in front of me. 

“I have to tell you something…” it started. I didn’t know who she was talking to; it wasn’t addressed to anyone, but I hoped she meant it for me. No one else lived in that house at the same time we did—I’m sure someone lived there before, and someone might live there after. Maybe whoever they are, they’ll find my memories too, crumpled to the ground, an explanation of sorts. “I have to tell you something I should have told you many years ago, when you were little and could still fit in the crook of my arm. A thing I should have told before you were old enough to understand what it meant. Maybe then we wouldn’t be here—or I guess you wouldn’t be here, because I’m probably long gone by now.”