Duty
By Rita H. Chen

I open the door quietly; hoping that Mother won’t be up. However, just as I step into the house, I can already hear Mother’s voice, worried and unnatural-sounding.

“Esther, is that you, Dear?”

I stifle a sigh. “Yes, Mother,” I answer out-loud.

A slight shuffle, and then Mother stands in the foyer looking at me, her diminutive figure silhouetted in the sickly yellow lights of the hall. “Are you alright, Esther?” she asks. “You were out so late that I was worried-”

“Yes Mother, I know. I’m sorry,” I reply automatically, wishing to God that she would just mind her own business and go back to-

Oh God. Stop it, Esther. How could you even think something like that about your mother? You should be ashamed of yourself. Yes, I am. I’m sorry. “I’m sorry, Mother,” I say again, trying to make my voice sound more sincere.

Mother’s look of worry smoothes into one of relief. “It’s alright, Dear,” she tells me. “You know I don’t mind you going out. I just really hope that you can come back when you say you will, Dear. I know it’s your own life and all, but you know how my heart is…”

Of course, Mother’s heart. She’s right, I shouldn’t have been out that long. What if she suffered an attack from worrying about me? “I’m sorry, Mother,” I repeat, smothering the small voice in my mind that says that my going out is not responsible for any attack my mother might have. “Have you had your pills yet?”

“No, they were too high for me to reach in the cabinet,” Mother says with a bright smile. “I was waiting for you to get them for me.”

“Alright, I’ll get them right now.” I leave her and enter the bathroom, noting with some annoyance that her pills are on the first shelf of the bathroom cabinet and entirely within her reach. Then I immediately feel guilty. I shouldn’t feel testy, I tell myself. Mother’s heart… But it’s not my problem! the voice protests. I recoil from it, horrified. I shouldn’t be thinking that. It is my problem. Of course it is.

I hand her the pills and fill a glass of water for her. I make sure the water is warm. It’ll hurt Mother’s teeth if it’s too cold.

“Thank you, Dear,” Mother says, taking the glass from me. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

I give her a small smile in reply.

I have to smile. I’m her daughter.

END

Rita’s Musings: This is a short sketch that I wrote for a creative writing class. The assignment at that time was to write a small sketch in imitation of any popular author and the author I chose to imitate here was Margaret Laurence.