“I can take care of it myself, so just leave me alone,” I snapped.
Saying that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made my chest feel heavier.
I turned away from the icy tension and went to my room.
A little while later, I stepped out into the living room and noticed the balcony lights were on.
I quietly leaned over to look, and what I saw has stayed with me ever since.
Mom was sitting there, hunched over, peeling a huge pile of onions.
It was something she’d done countless times, nothing out of the ordinary.
But for some reason, in that moment, she seemed impossibly small—
like the tiniest person in the world.
Scrape, scrape.
The soft, steady rhythm of peeling filled the house.
I tried to look away, but I couldn’t.
Mom’s eyes glistened with tears, yet she kept going, carefully peeling each onion.
I wondered—were those tears from the onions, or from my harsh words?
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“No, it’s fine,” she said.
Her words were short, but her eyes and voice held the same unwavering love.
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer and quietly stepped away from the balcony.
Maybe peeling onions was the only time Mom allowed herself to cry.
Scrape, scrape.
The sound and smell of onions filled the silent house—sharp, yet gently sweet.
