Mother’s Day
~Mathew Barzal~
he’s such a girl dad 😍
TW: none, pure fluff
word count: 638
Your eyes shot open as you heard the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen, followed with high-pitched giggling and shushing. You groaned as you rubbed your eyes and checked the time, noticing that your alarm set for an hour ago never went off. Rolling out of your comfortable bed, you quietly walked out of your room and peeked into the kitchen, met with the cutest sight ever.
Your three year old daughter sat on the counter in a mini-apron holding a wooden spoon as your husband, Mathew Barzal, bent over to clean up the mess on the ground. You could smell pancakes and syrup, fresh fruit and bacon. Neither of them had noticed you, so you stayed hidden and silent, watching what they were up to.
“Shh princess, we don’t want to wake up mommy?” Mat said with a smile, only pure adoration in his eyes as he looked at his mini self.
You couldn’t believe how much your daughter looked like her dad. Everything with the thick black hair on her head to her blue eyes looked exactly like Mat’s. You carried that child in your womb for 9 months and went through 12 hours of labor only to be told, “Oh, she kind of has your nose.”
“Why mommy sleep?” she asked, tilting her cute little head.
“Because today is a special day, it’s mommy day,” Mat explained, reminding you that it was the second Sunday of may, mother’s day.
“What’s mommy day?” your daughter asked, watching her father closely.
He smiled and picked her up in his arms, twirling her around for a second, laughter filling the air, “Well today, we are going to be nice to mommy all day. We’ll give her gifts and bring her breakfast in bed. And then. . .” you covered your ears with a smile, not wanting to ruin any surprise.
You quickly made your way back to your bed and pulled the covers over your head, pretending that you were still asleep. A few minutes later, you heard a pair of footsteps, followed by a pair of smaller footsteps, walk into the room, “Go wake her up,” Mat said.
You felt your daughter climb onto the bed and yank the blankets off your head, “Mommy!” she shouted. Pretending to wake up just then, you yawned and stretched your arms, bringing them around to pull your daughter against you, peppering kisses all over her face.
“Oh my little girl! Oh how I’ve missed her so much,” you said dramatically as you tickled her, she shrieked and kicked away from you.
You smiled and looked up to Mat, who was carrying a platter with pancakes, fruit, bacon, and orange juice, “Happy mother’s day,” he said with a grin, setting the platter down on the bed and pecking you on the lips.
You picked up the platter and looked at the pancakes which were decorated with a chocolate chip smiley face, “I did that!” she said proudly.
“Someone call Gordon Ramsey, he’s got his job on the line,” you joked, kissing her on the cheek.
The three of you ate the food together in bed, probably getting crumbs everywhere. Once finished, you leaned back on the pillow, patting your stomach, “That’s going to put me in a food coma.”
Mat laughed and laid down next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, “I don’t know about you, but I could go for a nap right now.”
Your daughter climbed up and laid on your guys’ laps, opening her mouth wide and stretching her arms, “Ya, me too,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed.
You laughed quietly and gently stroked her hair, leaning your head against Mat’s shoulder. He kissed the top of your head and shut his own eyes, “I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you more,” he replied.
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Rough fingers
Today, I learned that my mom is dying.
Personally, it isn't news, I've been a witness of my mother's mortality ever since I was six years old. She knew sickness before she even met me, and now I'm afraid the disease will be by her side for longer than I.
The doctors don't even know what it is, so there's no treatment, just thousands of pills to ease the pain. My house always felt more like a pharmacy than a home.
The doctors don't know that it is but I do: it's unfair.
It's being eight years old watching your mother shaking; it's being thirteen feelling her faint in your arms; it's being a fifteen years old staying at home to watch your younger siblings; it's being sixteen going through everything alone because your mother already has too much to bare; it's being seventeen years old willing away her tears while learning how to interpret exams results.
It's a lifetime of waiting — and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting — for the worst.
I want her to see me graduate, I don't want to be the one who makes the other hair.
Please Gods, let my mom be strong enough to make a braid.
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