Chapter 2 - THREE YEARS OF NOTES
The first note was short.
June 7, 2023 — 7:15 a.m.
Nora grabbed wrist because I moved her coffee mug. Said I need to learn not to touch other people’s things. Red mark lasted about one hour. Julian at work.
The second came six days later.
June 13 — Nora told Julian I refused to cook dinner. Actually she told me he had already eaten with client. When Julian came home hungry, she said I forgot. Did not correct her because she whispered, “Don’t embarrass me.”
Another.
July 2 — She threw my lunch away because “women in this house don’t eat like that.”
Another.
July 19 — Julian asked why I’m quiet around Mom. I said she criticizes everything I do. Julian said, “She means well. Just ignore her.” Nora heard. Later said, “See? He knows me better than you do.”
I stopped reading.
Evelyn watched my face.
“That was me.”
She nodded.
“I gave her that.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“Julian—”
“You tried to tell me.”
“Not really.”
“You did.”
I remembered.
Evelyn once said:
“Your mom acts different when you aren’t home.”
I kissed her forehead and answered:
“She’s adjusting.”
Another time:
“I think Nora resents me.”
I said:
“She lost Dad. Give her time.”
Every time Evelyn opened a door, I closed it without looking inside.
Mom noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Evelyn continued scrolling.
Year two was worse.
An incident where Mom hid Evelyn’s car keys before a work presentation, then “found” them after she missed the meeting.
Food thrown away.
Clothes removed from our closet because Mom considered them inappropriate.
Mom entering our bedroom without knocking.
Arguments.
A shove.
Then the burn.
I stopped.
“This wasn't an accident.”
Evelyn stared at her hands.
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Nora put the soup down behind me.”
“And?”
“When I turned, she kicked the pot.”
My stomach tightened.
“On purpose?”
“I don't know.”
“But she blamed you.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Evelyn’s face collapsed.
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The hospital.”
I remembered sitting beside her in urgent care.
Mom had arrived.
She told the nurse Evelyn was clumsy.
I laughed nervously and said:
“She is.”
Evelyn had gone quiet.
Oh God.
She had tried without words.
And I helped bury it.
I stood because sitting became impossible.
“What else?”
“Julian.”
“What else?”
She started crying.
I stopped.
“No.”
I sat again.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making you tell me like you're reporting to me.”
Her eyes closed.
I waited.
Eventually, she said:
“She kept telling me you'd choose her.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You did.”
The sentence was quiet.
Accurate.
I looked down.
“Not like this.”
“No.”
“But every small time.”
Yes.
“When she insulted me and you said ignore it.”
Yes.
“When she changed things in the apartment and you said she needed to feel useful.”
Yes.
“When she told your relatives I was controlling your money and you laughed because you thought it was ridiculous.”
I remembered that dinner.
Mom had joked:
“Evelyn holds the purse strings.”
I said:
“At least somebody responsible does.”
Everyone laughed.
Evelyn did not.
“I thought you would never believe something ugly enough about her.”
She wiped her face.
“So I started writing things down.”
“Why?”
“In case I needed to leave.”
My heart stopped.
“You planned to leave me?”
“I planned to have proof.”
“For divorce?”
“For myself.”
I looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“Nora could make me believe I imagined things.”
That sentence frightened me.
“She would do something and then tell me it didn't happen that way.”
“She’d say I was hormonal.”
“Sensitive.”
“Ungrateful.”
“Then when you came home, she'd be normal.”
Evelyn’s voice became smaller.
“I needed the notes so I could remember which version was real.”
I reached toward her.
Stopped before touching.
“Can I?”
She nodded.
I took her hand.
She squeezed once.
The notes became more frequent after pregnancy began.
Mom controlling food.
Criticizing weight.
Insisting Evelyn stop working sooner.
Telling her stress would “hurt Julian's baby.”
Not our baby.
Julian’s.
Then one note:
Nora said if I tell Julian she slapped me, she’ll tell him I’m becoming unstable from pregnancy and shouldn’t be alone with the baby.
I stared.
“She threatened your motherhood.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Why would you believe I’d accept that?”
She looked at me.
“Because she believed you would.”
That distinction hurt.
Then:
“And because you had believed her about everything else.”
I did not defend myself.
The final note before that afternoon:
March 10 — Nora said after baby comes I will need her permission before taking baby anywhere because Julian works and she will be “the real adult in the house.”
I stood.
Walked to the bathroom.
Closed the door.
And vomited.
When I came back, Evelyn was crying quietly.
“I’m sorry.”
I sat beside her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
“You don't apologize to me for surviving inside something I failed to see.”
She looked away.
Then I said the sentence that would become the first promise I made carefully enough to keep.
“You decide what happens next.”
Her eyes returned to me.
“Not me.”
I swallowed.
“Not my mother.”
“Not our relatives.”
“You.”
“And whatever you decide, I will not ask you to protect my feelings from it.”
For the first time that night, Evelyn breathed differently.
Not relaxed.
Nothing was fixed.
But maybe—
May you like
believed.
---
