A meal

“I was tired.” All the throwing up the night before (as usual) had made my throat sore. I looked at the clock; it was 5:00 a.m. as I brushed my teeth. I felt a glow on my face; the dawn was finally breaking through after surviving a dark night. “I need to make tea,” I thought. I entered the kitchen, the place I had left yesterday. “Do I smell?” The stink was coming from my clothes.

My father entered the kitchen to check for the third time. I left my tea and toasted the bread first. “Were you up all night?” my mother asked while leaving with the toast for my brother. “I should take a shower first, then I’ll eat,” I said as I left. Served them, eaten in silence.

As I put on my top, it was loose again. I could see my bones looking at me with pity. I took the first bite of my breakfast as my mom started bickering from the bathroom, asking, “How many clothes do I have to wash every day?” My father glared at her as he left the kitchen, continuing until he reached the living room. I sipped the cold tea, staring the fan looping at the same place.

“We have to wrap up lunch fast,” my mother said, as the water pipeline broke. “Okay.” I started with the cups and, after walking in a full circle, I ended with the dishes. Finally, it was time to eat. My mom was cutting the salad for my little brother. The television was loud yet clear: “People are dying of hunger.” I sat there, serving the meals. As the news stated, “ Auto-rickshaw driver’s daughter topped the exam.” This sentence was enough for my father to slide his plate away.

We packed the food as he left. My mother started in: “Wherever we go, people ask about when you are getting a job,” she murmured. I listened, looking at the food as it got cold.

My stressed yet drunk father, asked for food. I thanked God. As I served him, a second later, he tossed the container away. “You wasted my money, now what?” His voice sounded like a snake.

My mother defended me. As per past patterns, they started their fight. I gathered the food with tears in my eyes. My stomach was burning, and my forehead was covered with sweat. I clenched a roti in my fist. I hid behind the freezer, chewing it while gulping water. Without realizing it, I fell asleep there. I looked out; it was night already.

I anxiously came out. I could hear the television and took some more steps ahead. My brother was eating an ice cream, and they were eating their meal. Their plates were filled with the things I had made. My father joined his hands before eating. “It’s tasty, you should eat,” my mother said while feeding my brother.

I looked at my fist, still clenched around the leftover I had taken.