With a Side of Hope

I was always on edge with my mother’s emotions; even at eight years old, I knew something was different today. We were in the prettiest, cleanest house I had ever seen and got to live there.

It was empty, with only the bare minimum furniture. A simple, clean beige couch centered in the massive living room, a wooden bunk bed in our bedroom, and a small round table with four seats in the kitchen. Everything was light-colored and clean, blending into the house itself.

My siblings and I brought a few boxes; we didn’t own much.

We were waiting for Mom’s male companion to join us—she was eagerly waiting to introduce us to him. As we waited, my little sister, little brother, and I spent hours playing with our each other: running and flipping in our newfound space, playing with the echoes of the house, and giggling as we twisted my little brother’s hair up into multiple ponytails which he modeled for us—we were enjoying our mother’s attention.

Our mother was happy. It radiated off her, and I knew I could be happy with her. When the evening came, my mom sat us down at a little table by candlelight. The electricity had yet to be turned on.

The shadows of the flames flickered playfully along the walls as Mom made us macaroni and cheese.

This was the first time I remember her ever making food for us— our grandmother usually did all of the cooking. Mom slopped a yellow mush of food on bland white plates for us and sat down.

 “Let’s pray over our meal tonight,” Mom said.

“Pray?” I responded.  

“Yes. Just put your hands together and tell God why you’re thankful.”

Mom began to mold my hands into a prayer, believing I didn’t understand what a prayer was, but I did know. I was confused about my mom’s sudden interest in praying to God, but this made me happy and matched our new life perfectly.

“Father God, thank you for this food, this home, and our new friend who will join us soon. Amen.” Mom whispered, just barely loud enough for us to hear. 

“Amen,” I whispered to my mother.

I felt sudden peace and happiness. Something was lingering with the candle’s flickering, the prayer my mother led, and this new house.

Something has changed about my mother. Moving here made her happy.

I suddenly realized what was there; hope. Mom was constantly at war with herself. Even at eight years old, I knew my mom had never had hope like this before. I felt it. Her hope gave me hope. It released stress that I didn’t realize I was holding onto, and I knew that things would be better. She would be better. We would finally be happy as a family.

The macaroni and cheese tasted even better with a side of hope. This was the best meal I had in a long time. 

Thank you for taking the time to read this. You might also appreciate exploring other non-fiction short stories if you enjoyed this.