so messed up

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When I was around seven, my mom had this special routine she did every morning before school. She'd lock herself in the bathroom for exactly ten minutes with a small makeup bag, and when she came out, she was always in the most amazing mood - singing old Broadway tunes, making elaborate breakfasts with pancakes shaped like hearts, telling silly jokes that made me giggle until my stomach hurt.
I lived for those mornings. She'd sit me down at her vanity and braid my hair with extra care, taking time to smooth each strand and secure it with my favorite ribbons. She'd pack surprise notes in my lunch box - little drawings of flowers or messages like "You're my sunshine" written in her loopy handwriting. During the drive to school, we'd belt out Disney songs with the windows down, her voice harmonizing perfectly with mine. She was like a completely different person on those days - the happiest, most energetic mom in the world.
But some mornings were drastically different. When she couldn't find her makeup bag, or when it was empty, those days cast long shadows over our house. She'd move through the morning routine like she was underwater - slow, deliberate, barely present. Her voice would drop to barely above a whisper when she spoke at all. Sometimes she'd forget to make me lunch entirely, and I'd discover the empty lunch box at school, my stomach growling through math class. On the worst days, she'd sit at the kitchen table in her bathrobe long after I should have left for school, staring blankly at her coffee cup.
I learned to check if the bag was sitting on the bathroom counter first thing when I woke up, tiptoeing past her bedroom door in my bare feet. If it was there, full and ready, I could relax knowing it would be a good day. If it was missing or looked depleted, I'd brace myself for the quiet version of my mother, the one who felt like a faded photograph of herself.
I started paying attention to other adults too. Aunt Sarah always excused herself to touch up her lipstick during family dinners, disappearing for several minutes before returning much more talkative and animated. My teacher, Mrs. Peterson, took headache medicine from a small amber bottle she kept hidden in her desk drawer, but only when she thought we weren't looking. I noticed how her shoulders would relax afterward during story time.
The pattern was everywhere once I started noticing it - adults having their little private moments, their brief disappearances followed by subtle transformations in mood and energy.
For Mother's Day when I was eight, I decided to do something truly special. I'd been saving my weekly allowance for months, counting crumpled dollar bills and quarters in my piggy bank. I convinced my dad to take me to the fancy department store downtown, where I found the most beautiful makeup bag I'd ever seen - soft pink leather with gleaming gold clasps and a silk-lined interior. I even convinced them to monogram it with her initials in elegant gold script.
When I presented it to her that Mother's Day morning, wrapped carefully in tissue paper I'd decorated with crayon flowers, she stared at it for what felt like an eternity without saying a word. Her face went through expressions I couldn't read - surprise, something that might have been fear, and then a devastating sadness I'd never seen before. Then she started crying, but these weren't happy tears. These were the kind that seemed to come from somewhere deep and broken, the kind where your whole body shakes and you can't catch your breath.
She pulled me into the tightest hug I'd ever received and kept whispering "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby" over and over again into my hair. Her voice cracked with each apology, and I felt her tears soaking through my pajama shirt.
I didn't understand why she was apologizing for what I thought was the best, most thoughtful gift I'd ever given anyone.
Fifteen years later, sitting across from her in a sterile visiting room with fluorescent lights humming overhead, she finally found the courage to explain what was really in those makeup bags all those years. The special routine that transformed her into the vibrant, joyful mother I adored wasn't about makeup at all