“Ollie, I told you you have to wash your dishes right away! I don’t like a mess in my house…”

My mother continues on with her rant repeating the same things three and four times. The pained expression on her face is meant to show her agitation and the grief that it causes her to have to reprimand me. Again.

Poor mother.

She means well- I know she does, but years of enduring the same litany of complaints through my teens have put me on auto-pilot to the point where, though I have completely tuned her out, I know exactly when to make the appropriate sounds of agreement. I nod and behave like I’m listening and taking in her wisdom and mean to do whatever it is she wants right away. And I will. After all, she is allowing my son and I to live in her house rent-free.

“Ollie… Olive!”

“Yeah. Huh? What?” I tune back in.

“Do you hear what I’m saying? I don’t want bugs in the house…”

She’s lost me again. I stare with unseeing eyes at the child support papers on the table in front of me. They arrived a week ago and I know that I need to fill them out and send them in soon, but every time I look at them the words blur, every coherent thought goes right out of my head and lightheadedness begins to set in.

Anxiety, that’s all it is, I tell myself. Take a deep breath and you’ll be fine. Just breathe. It’s just a few pages to fill out and then you’ll be done with it.

#5 When and in which city or town did you last have sexual intercourse with the father?

“Oh, for the love of-!“

“OLIVE!”

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

“Sorry, Mom.” I mumble. “You want some food, Bubba?” I ask turning to my four year old son.

“Yes, Mommy. May I please have a sandwich?”

He turns on his smile and I can’t help but smile back.

“Yes, of course, my sweet boy,” I say scooping him up for a hug. “You may have a sandwich.”

Saved by peanut butter and Nutella.

Next Chapter: Be strong for your children.