Those Two Little Words

My mother is so beautiful. She has this cool, European look. Her father was originally from Spain, and she inherited his raven hair and beautiful hazel eyes. She is petite, around five feet tall. She is a little plump, but her plumpness suits her well. She looks younger than fifty-five. She looks like she's in her early forties. Ever since she divorced my father twenty years ago, she has never been in a relationship. I feel sorry for her. She should at least have a boyfriend. It's ironic how she's always preoccupied with my love life when she doesn't have one of her own.

I can't blame her for wanting solitude though. My father put her through immeasurable pain. I vaguely remember what happened between them, although my mother did tell me the whole story.

My father was fixing a broken balcony a short distance away from where my mother lived (he was a handyman and an out-of-work architect), that's where she saw him for the first time. She told me it was love at first sight. According to Ma, Dad was very charming and he swept her off her feet. They started dating shortly after they met. Ten months later, they were married and had their first child—my oldest sister, Lizette.

My father was—and still is—a devastatingly handsome man. He is tall, dark, and gorgeous and has sexy brown eyes. He is older than Ma—eight years her senior. He was especially gorgeous in his younger days. And he knew he was gorgeous. He was unfaithful to Ma—cheated on her constantly. Ma had endured twenty years of his cheating when she finally decided to divorce him.

I remember when she told me the reason why she named me Karla.

"Your father wanted me to name you Karla because he thought the name was beautiful, that the name was the symbol of beauty and femininity. And so, I named you Karla. But a year after you were born, and after some persuasion on my part, he finally admitted that he had a mistress named Karla. He was having an affair with her while I was pregnant with you. I was so hurt and full of rage that I couldn't look at you or take care of you for two years. One of your aunts looked after you during that time. I didn't mean to vent my anger on you, sweetheart, but I honest to God couldn't look at you."

At first, I didn't know what to make of Ma's confession. All I know is that it hurt me to know that she wasn't there for me during my first years in the world. She was hurt, and I've come to terms with the fact that some people aren't capable of making reasonable decisions when they're hurt.

Four years after I was born, my mother gave birth to my younger brother, Jeremy. It was the most difficult time of her life. My father had started drinking uncontrollably. He was also becoming abusive. He hurt and bruised my mother, even while she was pregnant. When she gave birth to my younger brother, my father was nowhere to be found. She was alone in the maternity room. My older siblings were the only ones there. That was the last straw. Soon after giving birth to Jeremy, my mother filed for divorce. My father refused, but she went along with the divorce procedure anyway.

Dad wouldn't accept that it was over between them. He felt he had to do something in order to win my mother back. He felt he had to punish himself in painful ways to really deserve her forgiveness. He showed up at my mother's apartment one day with a gun in his hand. My mother and all her seven children were there. Everyone gasped. According to Ma, he said absurdities like, "I know I did you wrong. And I know I don't deserve you, which is why I'm going to kill myself right now." He aimed the gun to his head. Astonished, the children cried and begged him not to do it. Ma, however, was uncharacteristically calm. "Put that gun down," she said, unfazed. "You have no intention of killing yourself. You love yourself too much. Please, leave. Just leave us alone!" Defeated, Dad put the gun down and left.

A few weeks later, Dad decided to torture himself. He started punching himself, cutting himself, throwing himself against a wall, throwing heavy objects at himself like rocks, balls, electric equipment, power tools—anything he could find. His face was bruised and bleeding. He went home that day with his disfigured and monstrously bruised face and said, "Have I suffered enough?" Ma was horrified, but she said no.

A few days later, Dad decided to throw himself out the window from our building. He went into the apartment without saying a word. He ran and flew out the window. The window was closed and the glass shattered. He did not die. He did not hurt himself—save for a few cuts from the shards. Ma and the kids went outside to him. "Please, come back to me," he pleaded, still lying on the floor. "No," Ma replied. A big crowd soon gathered, watching the embarrassing scene. He couldn't have possibly hurt himself; it was a one-story fall, after all.

Months passed. Apparently, Dad disappeared from the face of the earth. The divorce was almost final. But one day, he came back. He was smiling and seemed happy and eager. "I have a surprise for you!" he said. He drove us to the country and showed us his surprise: he had built the most beautiful house in the world. It was a white, two-story house with thirty acres of farmland. It had an enormous gazebo. It also had a white picket fence. The front yard had a beautiful garden filled with roses, orchids, eglantines, tulips, and daisies. There were several apple trees adorning the freshly cut grass. The children gasped. It was the most beautiful house they'd ever seen. Ma, however, wasn't impressed.

"Now, will you come back to me?" Dad asked confidently. He was certain that he had won my mother's forgiveness. Ma had always wanted Dad to build a house in the country for them to live in and raise us, and he has made her dream come true. But Ma didn't look as thrilled as he had hoped.

"Well?" Dad queried. "Do you forgive me now?"

Ma gazed blankly at him and said no.

His eyes opened wide. He couldn't believe what he had heard. Just then, he got down on his knees, grabbed my mother tightly by her waist and started crying. He had his face buried in her chest. His sobs sounded muffled. "Why won't you come back to me? I have done everything I could. I have punished myself in every possible way. Why won't you come back to me? Tell me!" he pleaded.

Ma also cried, but remained strong and determined. She said, "Because I hadn't asked you to do any of that. I hadn't asked you to punish yourself, or to build me a house. I only wanted to hear you say 'I'm sorry', that was all. But you couldn't do that. All this time you never said it. If only you would have said those two little words, I would've gone back to you without a moment's hesitation."

Dad was speechless for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," he repeated maniacally. My mother chuckled sadly and said, "I'm afraid it's too late for that."

Two months later, they were divorced. Dad sold the house and moved to a small town in Massachusetts. Ma got a job as a secretary at an insurance company. She developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and left the firm after working there for fifteen years. She settled for a monthly social security check and a part-time job as a school cafeteria worker. To this date, Dad is still waiting for Ma to take him back.

I often ask my mother why she's never forgiven my father. She always answers with this: "Your father hurt me very much, Karla. He did abominable things to me, and he thought that I'd take him back if he did horrible things to himself. He never told me he loved me, he never apologized"—she gazes intently at me as she concludes her answer—"And that, to me, said spoke volumes."

I've never understood her last statement, but I see that she is now happy—the happiest a single mother could ever be. And that speaks volumes.