Breaking the Chain
written by: Phyllis Souza
At fifteen, I lived under my mother’s rules and felt their limits. I knew what it meant to want something and be denied it.
“It’s for your own good.” That was what she always said. But good for what? I never saw anything good in it.
Then she would say, “You’re too young.” Too young for what, exactly? She never explained — she just left me hanging, so the reason stayed out of reach.
“Because I said so.” That was one for the books. No reason, no explanation, just her authority shutting me out and making it the point.
Sometimes I would look in the mirror and see only a stone statue staring back at me.
***
One afternoon, just after four, my mother returned from the store and parked the old green Ford in the garage. The garage had a dirt floor and bare wooden walls, and it always smelled of motor oil. It was cool and dark inside, almost like a dungeon.
I heard the car door slam and rushed outside to help her with her groceries. My stomach was growling. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said, reaching for a bag. “Don’t just stand there, showing off like a princess. Help me carry it inside.”
I tried to take the brown grocery bag from her, but she pulled it away. “No, not this one. I’ve got it. Grab the one in the back seat. There’s fresh hamburger in there.”
***
Spaghetti—again. This time, with meat. I knew she kept canned mushrooms in the cupboard and hoped she wouldn’t add them. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would.
She knew I hated mushrooms, and sometimes I thought she took pleasure in it.
I ate the mushroom spaghetti, choking it down, but I survived—for now. I lasted long enough to clean the kitchen, wash the dishes, take out the trash, and feed the leftover spaghetti to the dog—a smart dog—who left the mushrooms in the bowl.
No mushrooms for him. The chain would not break.
***
Sunday arrived. It’s a day for rest and relaxation, or as I call it, ‘competitive loafing.’
Trying to negotiate, I asked my mother early in the morning, when moms are usually more agreeable, “May I go to the beach with my cousin?”
My cousin, aka ‘the Wild Thing.’ She’s funny and rebellious, and she’s got that ‘sexy’ thing going on.
I wanted to be sexy, too, and I really liked boys.
The volleyball-playing boys head to the beach every Sunday.
“No beach for you! It’s Sunday; you go to church. It’s a sin to miss Mass,” my mother said.
And here’s the funny part: my mother was about as religious as a goldfish. Sometimes I think she only went to church in case God was keeping score.
***
The sun, the ocean, and suntan lotion were essentials for a teenage girl. Hot, dry sand, cool, wet sand, and waves rushing in—paradise.
I was desperate to find even a small crack in her defenses, a place where her heart might soften.
If I could find it, maybe she would finally say yes. Except, of course, for the mushrooms, she always said yes.
***
When I turned sixteen, I met a young man with gentle eyes. He was a stranger from a distant country who had crossed the Atlantic in search of a new life in America.
I told my mother, “He asked me to marry him. What should I say?” My heart pounded.
She said, “Yes,” and I expected to feel relieved. Instead, I felt as if I had lost something forever. She should have said “No.”
***
Her yes was poison, not a mushroom, and it nearly destroyed my life.
No wonder I’m so fucked up!
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – Breaking the Chain
- Breaking the Chain - August 20, 2026
- The Confession at Golden Hour - July 27, 2026
- Under the Fireworks - July 4, 2026
