A Mother's Love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story of a parent's love and a battle won

Submitted: June 11, 2016

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Submitted: June 11, 2016



She sat on the tiny cot in her jail cell, listening to the footsteps of the guard on count receding down the gallery.

One year ago to the day, she had arrived here, and today it was over, she was going home. Never in her wildest dreams, her most inventive imagination would she ever have dreamed that she would be locked in a jail cell one day, that she would have even committed an act of violence, yet it was what it was.

Some say life is a war, and it's full of battles, and if so, then the one she had been through for the past year must have been the ultimate battle of will and inner strength, yet she still remained undecided, had she won, or had she lost?

It really began the day her daughter was born, the sweetest, cutest, softest little cuddly ball of beauty they both ever dreamed of having, and they did.

Life was so great then, their little family in the burbs, her husband working his favored career job, and with plenty of money to spare she settled in to be the housewife and mother she had always planned to be.

They got the first diagnosis when she was about four, and by then they already had an inkling that something wasn't quite right, something was different, a little off.

It was autism, they were told, and then the uplifting stories of those who had overcome this symptom to go on and become different success stories in the world began to be told, they studied and observed, and tried to follow all of the recommendations and plans the experts would give to them.

But the years went by, and their little girl grew up, grew up to fifteen in her body but still five within her mind. She remained friendly and bubbly, always laughing and singing, dancing about throughout any and every room she would enter, her huge smile radiating throughout for all to see, feel, and be touched by.

Speech came very hard though, and comprehension was very difficult, she could memorize and mimic but knew not what she said, and those were the things she could do so very well.

It had happened in the school parking lot that Mother's Day last year, her daughter had made a beautiful bouquet to bring home to mom, and was walking through the groups of kids to her school bus.

The group of older girls had surrounded her, mocking her voice, reaching out to flick at her hair, slap lightly at her face.

Confused, yet not understanding, thinking maybe it was just a fun game, she had smiled and laughed, as one of the girl's asked her to count out her flowers into her open hands.

Counting, she loved counting, and she counted each flower to the girl one by one, giggling and shaking with delight at the new game they were having.

And suddenly, when the last flower was in the elder girl's hands, she had swung them around, and began to beat them over and about the smaller girl's head, then her back as she bent over and shrieked her confusion and dismay.

They pushed her then, and she fell on the cement, and now laughing themselves, they circled her, tossing her flowers down onto her body, mocking her count.

The group had dispersed as soon as faculty approached, and the little girl lay huddling on the pavement, hugging her knees to her chest, rocking slowly back and forth.

Her eyes were blank and empty, and she stared emotionless at the sky, moaning over and over, again and again.

When they called her, she had flown to the car and drove with a fury to the school, the worst of expectations running through her mind. They wouldn't say what was wrong, just that she or her husband must come for their daughter now.

When she had entered the school's office, her daughter was sitting on the floor in the center of the room, rocking back and forth, her thumb in her mouth, a little muffled wail of pain emitting itself ever so softly and painfully from within.

She ran to her daughter, hugged her tight, asking her what was wrong, what had happened, knowing the girl couldn't speak to her to say it. But as the little girl gripped her back, tighter and tighter, her body stiffening and tightening with the extreme pressure of inner pain she could feel but not let out, the same feelings seemed to flow from her child right into her own, and she had to know why.

As they watched the video, taken from the camera overlooking the school's parking lot, she heard the principal's voice coming to her through the fog of grief, telling her how sorry and sad this event was, and that those who had done this would be dealt with, suspended for days.

And as she staggered from the room, her little girl clutching tight to her hand, she looked down once to see a single red rose being held up and out to her. She took it, and head down, she cried.

They were twenty feet from her car when she saw them, the group, the whole lot of them, those damned girls who'd done such an evil and vile deed to her child, there they stood, laughing and looking, whispering as they glanced over and shrugged.

She had hustled the little girl into the seat, belted her in, and then as she started the car, she glanced once more over at her daughter, watching her tiny lips moaning in pain, rocking against the seatbelt, and she saw the red of the rose, and the red came from within, and she floored the gas pedal, her car flying through the group of girls, knocking bodies askew like billiards being hit by a ball.

They had jailed her, of course, everything witnessed by the same parking lot cam, and first there was a cry of outrage from the public, in hearing of some lady running down a group of innocent teens.

But later, as the video of what had happened to her girl went public, and the truth of the matter all came to light, the public outcry had changed to one that wanted her freed.

Only the knowledge of knowing her husband loved their daughter as much as she did, and was feeding, protecting, and loving the child, enabled her to get through the lonely nights of darkness and misery locked within a tiny jail cell. And it wasn't even the freedom which hurt her the most, it was being cut off and apart from those that she loved, and most of all from a daughter who needed her and didn't understand why she wasn't there anymore.

Life played and replayed through her mind over and over on those deep nights of darkness, and she questioned her actions again and again, feeling as if she had won a battle of life, yet she feared evermore with the passing of each day that perhaps she had lost the war.

So now, all said and done, one year to the day, she was being set free, to go home to her child. When she finally stepped outside in the morning, amidst the flashing bulbs of the newsmen and the calls for a statement coming from the surrounding crowd, she spied her daughter at the other end of the sidewalk, and with a yell she ran as the girl ran to her, and they fell into each other's arms.

And as she looked down, her tears blurring her sight, she grasped the single red rose the girl held up to her, and she bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

No, two wrongs never make a right, yet why then did she suddenly feel so complete, and so alive? And to her delight, and utter surprise, it happened.

The words floated through the air, almost a whispering chant, her tiny giggly voice, stuttering out a "Haaa--ppy Mo-mmo-mother's Day, mommy."

And she looked at her little girl, and she looked at the red rose, and she looked within her soul, and she finally felt the battle was over, and right or wrong, she felt they had won.

© Copyright 2019 DavidPaul. All rights reserved.

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