My mother walks towards me with the hose, then past me toward her garden, to spray her pea plants. I can tell that she is sad but also angry. She has a look on her face like she is confused on which emotion to feel. Her mind can’t decide. Anger and sadness teeter-totter back and forth.

She finishes her watering then walks back into the soundless house, passing by me as if I don’t exist. I follow her for no reason and sit down in the kitchen. She rummages through the refrigerator. I wonder if maybe I could have broken the news to her in some other way. Will she ever recover from what I told her a few short minutes ago?

She aggressively pokes around at the plethora of frozen foods, being sure to make extra noise for added impact. She grabs an ice pop and proceeds to rip off the shiny, white plastic wrapper. I can sense her rising anger as the temperature in the room rises in a similar manner. The ice pop melts. It is the most pathetic thing. She holds it in her hand dripping, not even trying to capture the sticky sugar drops before they hit the ground. It was as if the popsicle was crying for her, sugary tears fell. The kitchen floor was a mess with speckles of bright red popsicle. I know as the popsicle withers away and gathers as a puddle on the floor I too begin to melt in a similar way. The image of her perfect daughter was tarnished after breaking the news and the place within my own mother’s heart I once held is transforming into a vacant lot. I had broken her heart, ripped it in two.

My mother could no longer refer to me as “the good one”. Not after what I told her. My title was most certainly stripped- now just a disappointment. A tear stain on an old letter. A faded stamp in the background of a picture. A misconceived girl, woman, daughter. I had melted.