The hush falls over the house as the garage gate closes behind Altaaf and the car bromms away, down the street for the school drop off. Just the blissful sound of the appliances making that electrical noise as it keeps the mostly empty fridge working. She sighs, collapsing onto the couch. A reflection she hardly recognise, stares back at her in the dark tv. Their hair is in disarray atop their head, eyes sunken and mouth turned down at the ends. Even in the black screen, their skin looks sallow. She driks out a smile for that image. The way she used to in school when she was being insincere and someone was making a joke she didn’t like. She’d push her lips out forcefully for no more than three seconds, eyes giving the death stare.
Dropping her head back, she retreats into darkness for a minute, shutting out what she can see in the room. Behind closed eyelids, the list of errands she needs to run today, floats in her minds eye. The empty towel shelf in the bathroom. The overflowing washing basket with a million small things that have stains from playing outside in mud and grass and school shoe scuff. The dishes from breakfast sitting next to the sink. The toys splattering the floor like haphazard paint splatter. Altaaf and her used to paint the town red. Now they’re in the red.
With a huff she open my eyes because closing them doesn’t allow the escape she wishes for. How has she become this? The magical unicorn solver of all domestic issues for her two young children.
Losing her job is a continuous blunt in her vision. Budget cuts after the pandemic meant she was let go with a month’s notice. There was no chance to wrap her brain around not having a corporate career anymore when Altaaf’s hours got cut back too. The courier company he worked for had been doing great during the pandemic, seeing as how everyone was having things delivered. But it seems they had a big financial loss over the last two years and were cutting back driving hours. He’d applied for a job in the office but he didn’t get it. The worry of how they were going to cope with one salary weighs her down. It’s a silent thread in their conversations, coiling tighter and tighter the longer they fear unravelling it. Neither one wants start untangling the mess.
Pushing up out of her sorrows, she heads to the kitchen. Reaching for the phone to check the FNB balance. Altaaf had deposited the allowance for food last night. Five hundred rand. She needs to come up with a menu for their weekly food with that.
Opening Pinterest she puts on her planning hat. Her Gastronimical Food board is at the top, ready and willing to share their wonders. There’s a mince recipe she saved. It makes a huge batch of mince, then shows you how to make a variety of meals for the week from that one batch of mince. She makes a note of the ingredients on a piece of paper.
Next is to check the prices and see where she can get it cheapest. Elite. PnPay. Checkers, Giants. Woolworths. Their websites are scrutinised within an inch of their lives as she makes notes of what the best places are to do her shopping for her specific ingredients.
And hour later she’s armed with a well thought out route that will save petrol and where to buy what at the cheapest prices before the kids get home form school. The rest of the morning is spent on this task and she makes it home just in time to make thur. As she packs her gastronomical finds away, she hears the car pull in the driveway and then her girls talking over each other as they walk to the front door. She has to be home when they are dropped off.
She waves at her father in law with an exaggerated smile. She doesn’t want him to see how full her brain actually is. He seems satisfied, waves and backs out of the driveway.
The kids rush in and throw their bags in their rooms and run at her for hugs. They’re getting so big now. She doesn’t have to bend over half as much as she used to. They dash away to the table and take their seats and start debriefing their day.
She divides her brain into a third that is paying attention to the stories they’re telling, responding appropriately. One part is using muscle memory to make the noodles to go with some of the mince. The last part is working, constantly, on quieting all the other thoughts that careen through her brain on repeat every second of the day.
Her girls do not deserve to have them repeated. They don’t deserve a parent who’d make them feel insignificant and small. They deserve someone who’d carry that, so that they don’t ever have to.
She made a promise when they were born that they would never feel like she doesn’t listen to them. She dotes on them so that when they are older, they don’t look for attention in the wrong places like she did. So that they find friends, a partner, who loves them unconditionally and doesn’t view a body as his, made for his pleasure, controlling where and how they show up in the world.
She’s grateful for these two miracles. She chooses to look upon their faces and see the light they bring into the world. That is her purpose. To defy their conception by making them strong in their softness, assured in their self. Altaaf doesn’t live here anymore to threaten them to get her to obey. She’ll carry the blame for the divorce, the surveillance and the threats if it means they’ll be free.