I am a sunset chaser. Ever since Papa taught me how to be one, I’ve learned of the best spots to watch as the day turns into night, the tired parents returning from their work and the hungry children racing back in for dinner. Sunsets always remind me of when I break the yolk of my fried egg, spilling it all over the plate. I only eat the white fluffy parts; before he left, Papa always ate the thick, yellow liquid, mopping it up in one swift move with a piece of toast. Now that he’s gone, I just let it soak into the bread and this makes Mama upset because she says that I ruin my meals, wasting food. Papa had said that he would work his hardest and come back for Mama and I, that he will come back before the sun goes down. I’ve watched over 3 years of sunsets now, straining my eyes so much that I can barely make out his nonexistent silhouette against the sinking star. How many more will I have to ruin my eyes for? All we ever get from him is the latest paycheck and a note saying that he loves us, that he wishes to be with us, had the world not grabbed him by the throat and by his empty pockets. He works hard, he does. So I wait.
We live in a neighborhood built on rich soil. I got into the prep school—for free Mama had said gleefully. Papa and Mama couldn’t pay for my other school anymore, so I turned in papers hoping, praying, that I can still study at school. And I guess it worked because by 7th grade, I was in a clean uniform with shiny new textbooks and a heart brimming with hope. As the year went on though, Papa couldn’t pay for the house he had ambitiously bought; I begged him to let me be homeschooled, thinking that I can learn to repair broken things like Papa does, but Papa refused, saying that he will not in his life let his daughter be anything less. So we moved back to the same house that same year, back to my old neighborhood of small, dilapidated houses, dead soil, and dropouts; I bike to school. Papa repairs. Mama prays.
I remember when Papa had to fix the front door. I was still in elementary school, and everything Papa did was heroic in my eyes. The door had just collapsed one day, not like the way Mama crumbled to the floor when she cried after Papa left, but it more so just gave up standing. Papa had swiftly disappeared into and emerged from his room with nails of all different sizes and a hammer that lost its handle cover. Sweat ran down his temples like the way rain droplets do on a windowpane, except his mind wasn’t see-through, and I certainly didn’t know what was going on in there. It had been the fourth time that week that he had to fix something in the house, and it was only Tuesday; I would imagine that he was upset at the condition it was in. He grumbled, while hammering in the nails, that he would one day buy a better house fit for someone as grand as Mama. Papa has always had this dream of living comfortably, rich enough so that Mama didn’t have to worry about wasting food and that I don’t have to study as hard. I told him that I study because I want to, and that I like the house anyway. Papa shook his head firmly, and then smiled as he gently squeezed my shoulders. You’re just saying that. But there was an impenetrable determination settled in his eyes, one that I knew I would not be able to convince him out of.
I really do like the house though. Even though Papa treated it like skin he cannot shed, it is comfortable for me. I could hear Mama and Papa softly talk through the walls of my room, about how I am growing to be a real, intelligent scholar, something they neglected to strive for when they got married so early. Before they slipped into silence, Papa would always say Someday, Ari, we’re going to get there. I promise. I imagined him saying this as they lay next to each other, his fists clenched, eyes unblinking, staring at our chipped ceiling. Mama was probably awake next to him, gently squeezing his hand in support with a frown on her face. Every night he said this to her, and every night I heard, until one night, exactly a year after we moved back, Mama suddenly tore apart the quiet atmosphere with a NO. Papa tried to shush her but she shrieked You and your STUPID GREEDY dreams you are NOT taking the job, Paul, NO. Afraid, I ran barefooted into their room and swung open the door. Papa was sitting up on the bed and Mama was standing up, face crumpled in frustration with her hands clasped onto the edge of the blanket, uncovering Papa. A gasp escaped my lips and they turned towards me. Mama quickly gathered her breath back into her broken chest, gathered herself back into the bed, patting the gap between her and Papa. I slowly crawled in, filling the space. All three of us were breathing at different rhythms. A moment of silence passed, until Mama started stroking my hair saying that she was sorry to have awakened me. Papa started tickling me, until I yelped with laughter. Then, on the morning after, Papa took me out to get ice cream before breakfast, tongues ready to meet cold cream. It was his way of apologizing; whether for that night or for the future, I still do not know.
The first year Papa was gone was the hardest. I was starting freshman year in high school by then, packing into my backpack my new student ID and my feelings of betrayal. I was furious at how the Papa I knew to be so good to us left in pursuit of a better life for the family, when it was already best back home. We have a Mama, a Papa, and I am still in that damn rich school, but no, that is not enough for Papa. He wants the strength of the worldly; he doesn’t see the bravery of rejecting it. It’s not that I didn’t believe in him coming back, I just wished he hadn’t taken the job if it meant sacrificing his time with us. My heart was still vulnerable to the temporary absence of Papa, which was only nurtured by Mama. I knew that Papa stole time; he stole time from me, stole time from her, slowly, thoroughly. The feeling dissolved like salt in cold water and it just made me more certain of my element …but I knew that I still loved him and that I forgave him.
My Mama… I can never make out exactly what she feels. She constantly creates work for herself, wiping the floor for the third time or dusting the already spotless counter top. I almost never see her sit down, from breakfast time to after supper when she finally lays her head onto the pillow and gently shuts her eyelids with a sigh so deep and so long, I worry that it is her last. I suggested once that she read a book or learn to play the piano, but she firmly shook her head saying that it isn’t fair if she took leisure time while Papa worked so hard. She said that when two people get married, they must always give all the effort they have, even though they might not support each other the same way. I asked, but weren’t you upset when he took the job? And she said that, when you love someone, you love them for the good they have, and even more so the unforgivable. I don’t understand marriage. It sounds painful, awful, and tiresome. When I told her this, she just gave a light ha and softly murmured but with your Papa, it’s beautiful. The independent air around her started rumors of her divorcing Papa, but I know, and I’ve seen, what Mama really wants by the way she desperately clings onto the handwritten notes from Papa, her wedding ring making a deep imprint on her finger. She tries to hide it, but I see the wisps of white invading the youth in her hair. She also often skips meals, claiming that she ate before I came back from school, but I know that she is just trying to save money. When Papa was still here with us, he would get upset at Mama every time she skipped a meal. When she refused to eat, he would whip up her favorite dish, with me as a taster on the side. Then he would set it up on the table, gently setting his hands on her delicate shoulders as she sat down, a grateful smile on her once rosy cheeks. Happy, that is what she used to be.
Neighbors often wonder how we survive. The other women ask Mama how she manages without her husband; she merely shrugs her shoulders saying that we’re fine, and continues to water her dying flowers. They stop by our door with their left over dinners, some untouched, others half eaten. Mama receives everything with two hands. But once the door squeals to a close, she tosses it all into the trash, and then takes the trash bag out to the cart even though the bag isn’t full yet. I asked her once why she threw the food away when it was such a waste. She conserves everything else that we have, recycling every single plastic bottle, and even keeping half eaten pieces of toast for breakfast the next day. It is almost embarrassing how she stuffs a whole stack of napkins into her tattered black bag when we go to fast food restaurants. Yet, she does not take what left overs others offer to us. We are not beggars, she said firmly. I do not let my worth be defined by their trash. Her dignity is in the palm of her slender hands, held tightly, delicately, with purpose and protection. This is how my Mama lives: preserving her self worth without having a care in the world about how poorly it appears. And this how she teaches me to live: to protect what I have, no matter how little it may be.
I’ve only seen Mama cry three times. The first time was after Papa embraced her before he left, before he left his life with us behind. I’ll be back soon he said, with a smile on his lips but conflict in his eyes, then gathered his bags and walked to the car. She waited until the door made a soft click and the engine of the car tapered off into the night. Then her legs slowly gave out like a rag doll, and she turned to pulp. I sunk to the ground with her, though I knew that he would be coming back soon anyways. Even in my feelings of betrayal, I believed in him because I think that it’s better to believe than to doubt. Better to hold onto hope because we should live having faith in something. Mama knew this too, but that did not stop her tears. Her faith was driving away in a car, far away, and all she could do was watch it go.
The second time I saw her cry was when I crept into Papa’s closet and retrieved one of his shirts to sleep in. By this time, I had forgiven his decision to take the job and wanted just to be closer to him again. Then I went downstairs to drink a cup of milk before I went to bed, and Mama looked towards me, her empty stare changing to horror in a flicker as her hand flew to her mouth. I instantly regretted my decision. I think she tried really hard because her nails left an impression on her left cheek that looked like those nicks on our table. Her eyes squeezed shut and the tears leaked out as she gasped for steady air. I stood there thinking stupid stupid stupid, waiting for the storm to pass, but it silently rained for hours. When she was finally dry of tears, she wiped her cheeks and smiled at me. Do you want some warm milk to help you sleep? I nodded, relieved that I was forgiven, and we sat next to each other on the cold floor with our cups of milk, bodies wrapped by the warm memories of Papa.
My classmates pretend to not take notice of me, but I hear them whisper behind my back. Their words pierce my ears like needles. Dirt poor, they say, father works separately. We are not dirt poor. The looks that we get from people make me feel as though we are rocks, not yet polished, kicked around on the ground amongst the dust particles. But Papa told me that Mama is his golden treasure, and that I am his jewel. I hear my classmates always complain about their parents, rolling their eyes at how they didn’t receive enough. One time, Jazz, who sat in front of me in math class, blindly turned around with pouted lips once, eyes towards me but not at me. Daddy doesn’t love me. Why? I asked, wondering how a daughter so dolled could not be loved by her father. Without shifting her focus, she replied he says that I’m spoiled. My eyebrows furrowed and my mouth slightly gaped open in confusion as group of girls clustered around her in sympathy. During lunch the same day, I asked the only other person sitting at the table across from me whether he thinks he’s spoiled or not. He looked at me blankly, pupils a zombie from lack of intentions. Never enough were two words he gave to me before he picked his phone back up, and I shook my head in disgust.
Papa’s absence made me work harder. The already present hunger to learn more, plus the reality of responsibility made a void that I felt like I had to fill, and soon the students started be aware of my existence by the praises of my teachers. They also started to take notice to my indifference to money, and lack there of. They gave me names. Ground-licker they called me. Money-stealer. There was one bad day where a couple of kids took me to the back of the art room, into a corner with the mops and the old paint rollers. They made a circular wall around me, eyes looking hateful, screening my body up and down.
This was the third time Mama cried.
Say something one of the boys spat. He grabbed my long, wavy hazel hair and yanked it up like static on his hands.
It hurt. But for some reason, I lost my attention to the present. I was not afraid. There is a certain immunity, I think, that is developed when self worth is grasped tightly, callused by the tightness of my hold. I turned my thoughts instead to our neighbors, and how their leftovers were barely touched. I thought about Jazz, and the guy across me during lunch, and how, as I looked at each person surrounding me, all of them were missing something. They were missing what Mama and I still hold onto, but Papa was pressured to neglect.
Hey one of the girls said, tugging at the hem of my skirt, another poking at the collar of the stiff shirt. This doesn’t belong to you. You don’t belong. I came back to the present as my cheek stung from the sudden slap by the girl; it flared into a blush, but I kept my mouth shut. I saw in their eyes what gives them value, about how they see me as lacking what they are defined by. My cold hand came up to my fevered cheek, in thought more than in pain. What are they driven by?
You are dead to us.
But I felt so alive.
I didn’t lose the mind set even after the ground met the palms of my hands and the air was pushed out of my system. The only part I felt bad about that situation was of how Mama had to wait an hour for the bus to come so that she could pick me up from the nurse’s office. She didn’t even try to conceal it this time; there were already tears streaming down her face as I told her through my swollen lips that I was fine. In fact, I was proud of how I held onto what Mama so greatly treasures, and when I told her this she cried even harder and held me in her arms. My baby, my baby she rocked back and forth. My beautiful baby. She promised me that she would take me out of the school, but I shook my head. I wanted to stay, since Papa is working so hard and because I wanted to prove that no pressure could stop me. And then she stroked my hair, saying that I have my Papa’s eyes, but I knew that I really had hers.
Every morning now I tie my hair into a ponytail, higher than my ears, but lower than my confidence, and Mama clips a pin that she used when she was younger onto the side of my head. She smiles at me before I head out the door, and I smile back. I still hear people in the hall calling me broken girl or lonely, but I let my hair swish back and forth on the back of my shoulders, like how Mama’s brush cleans off the dust on the kitchen table. And when I come back home, Mama is throwing away the neighbor’s leftovers again.
See Papa, we are not broken. We know how to get kicked around without getting bruises, not on our self worth anyway. You’ve taught me to chase sunsets, and I continue to just like you taught me. So Papa, please, please come back to Mama and me. We might not be complete… but we are still whole.
Mira-ie 
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