I promised myself that I wouldn't have to come back. That I'd do what the counselor, a white person, told me about familial relations and the impact of my mother on my mental health.

And yet here I am, despite it all.

"Oh. You went back to your mother's house?" Amos asked.

"Yes." For a moment, a selfish part of me wished for him to say something like "What? Why would you do that? That's not true, is it?"

"I see."

And he just left it at that. Didn't even question it. I stared at his back bitterly, not saying a word. He looked preoccupied.

Relieved, even.

Relieved. How. I nearly dropped the grocery bags I was holding, and fought the urge to scream and whirl them in the air near his face. But I didn't. Instead, I just clenched my fists and silently walked away.

Well, he wouldn't understand. He's a mama's boy, a voice told me.

No, I growled. He's a white boy. He could never understand this.

Once I'd finished paying for the two paper bags full of food, I made my slow, apathetic walk home. To think I used to be afraid to go to the supermarket by myself. Now, I'd probably have to go there at least once a day to have enough food for my mother and I. All this time and it was just around the block, not even that far. I cursed my past self for yet another irrational fear.

I suppose if I were less Americanized and hadn't spent so much time with my therapist, this would be me. Silently agreeing to my duty, out of unquestioning filial piety. This event would have been planned out years and years into the future, and I'd already have a plan. I'd be thinking only about the medical insurance and meal plan and not searching for a loophole to escape.

But where would you even escape to? A voice asked snidely. I grunted and shook one of the bags. You have no ace in the hole. Your mother's money is all you can rely on, and you are her only child. Her eldest child.

I hope both of them die.