storytime

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Every Sunday morning, my mom would disappear into the basement for exactly two hours with a shovel, rubber gloves, and a bucket of bleach. She'd emerge sweaty, exhausted, and refuse to explain what she was doing down there.

"Just some cleaning, honey," she'd say when I asked, quickly washing her hands at the kitchen sink. Dad would give her this knowing look and change the subject immediately.

My brother and I became obsessed with solving the mystery. We'd sneak to the basement door during her Sunday sessions, but it was always locked. We could hear scraping sounds, like she was digging or moving heavy things around. The smell of bleach would seep through the floorboards for hours afterward.

We tried everything to figure it out. We'd time her visits with stopwatches, noting she never stayed longer than two hours and three minutes. We'd inspect her clothes afterward, finding dirt under her fingernails and mysterious stains on her old jeans. Once, my brother even hid in the laundry room hoping to catch a glimpse, but she spotted him immediately.

"You boys need to find better hobbies," she'd say with that same secretive smile.

When friends came over, I'd make excuses to keep them upstairs. "My mom's just doing some deep cleaning," I'd lie, mortified by whatever weird ritual was happening below us. The basement became this forbidden zone that made our house feel different from everyone else's.

At 16, I finally confronted her. "Mom, what are you actually doing down there every Sunday? It's creepy and embarrassing. My friends think you're hiding something."

She looked at me for a long moment, then said, "Some things are better left alone, sweetheart. You'll understand when you're older."

That answer drove me crazy. I started making jokes about it with friends. "My mom's probably hiding bodies in the basement," I'd laugh, not knowing how close to the truth I actually was. The jokes helped mask how genuinely confused and frustrated I felt about being shut out of this part of her life.

The mystery followed me through high school and college. Even when I moved out, I'd still wonder about those Sunday morning disappearances. Mom never missed one, not even when she was sick with the flu or when we went on family vacations. She'd always find a way to get home by Sunday morning.

During college breaks, I'd wake up to the familiar sounds of her footsteps on the basement stairs, the soft click of the lock, and that persistent bleach smell drifting upward. It became the soundtrack of home, even though I still didn't understand it.

Last year, Mom was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. During one of her clearer moments, she pulled me aside with tears in her eyes.

"I need to show you something before I forget," she whispered, leading me to the basement door with shaking hands.

The basement looked normal except for one corner where the concrete floor had been repeatedly patched and resealed. Mom knelt down and pointed to a small, weathered photo taped to the wall.

It was my baby sister Emma, who died of SIDS when I was five. I barely remembered her.

"Every Sunday for twenty-three years, I've been coming down here to tend to her," Mom said, her voice breaking. "I buried her favorite blanket, her toys, her hospital bracelet. This is where I come to talk to her, to tell her about your lives, to make sure she's not forgotten."

The scraping sounds were Mom carefully maintaining this makeshift memorial. The bleach was to keep everything clean and preserved. The locked door was to protect her sacred space from curious children who wouldn't understand.

"I couldn't bear the thought of her being alone," she continued. "So every Sunday, I'd bring fresh flowers from the garden, clean everything, and spend two hours just being her mother again."

I looked at the corner with new eyes. Small silk flowers, perfectly arranged. A tiny music box. Letters written in Mom's handwriting, addressed to "My Sweet Emma."

"The dementia is taking my memories of her," Mom said. "Soon I won't remember to come down here anymore. Will you take over for me?"

Now every Sunday morning, I disappear into the basement for exactly two hours. My own kids think I'm weird, just like I thought Mom was.

But I understand now. Some love is too deep for explanation.