"Why are the brushes here? Shouldn't they be in the basement instead?" you asked.

Your mother looked at you. You caught sight of the newly-baked chocolate cake resting in between her hands. She was baking again. You used to love those. Anything laden with chocolate is heaven for you. Unfortunately, you stopped eating those ever since that happened.

You stopped being happy in general.

You like to think of it as a consolation prize for all the things that has happened to you. Your smiles barely reach your eyes. Your laughs were forced and your humor a facade. You're not a master of masking your emotions. Perhaps everyone knows of what's going on in your head and they all pretend not to notice. 

"Mom, did you go through my things again?" You demanded for an answer.

Your mother immediately threw a loving smile towards your direction. You both know it's fake, too. Joy is considered a fictitious emotion here. She told you she didn't. She couldn't even get pass the mauve-colored door of your room,  much less the basement.

The basement's the prime definition of mess. It used to be paradise, with you spending more time there than you do in your own room. In there, you'd paint pictures conjured by your spontaneous creativity until the sun dips low and the moon glows. Time is non-existent there. The only thing restricting you was the loud growling of your stomach. But now it has turned into a stock room. A place where all things you deem unimportant yet too memorable to throw are being stored.

"One of my paintings are missing. Did you sell them?"

"Darling, did you go to the basement a little while ago? What brought you there? Were you planning to paint-"

"Mom, no." Disappointment flashed in here face. "I found a painting in my room last night so I decided to bring it there." Bring it there and hope for it to rot. Hope for it to become the virtual representation of your dreams deteriorating one at a time.

"Is that so?"

"Mom!" Your voice went a pitch higher. You saw here flinch, saw her clasp the hem of her apron. A part of you hated yourself more by doing this to her. "What painting did you sell?"

Your mother went silent. You can tell she's contemplating whether she should tell you the truth or not. The gaze of her wrinkled eyes meant you'd win again this time if you just continue to prod. 

Your mother is a frail woman,  living in her early forties. She was gifted with height but she stood crouching, making her look vulnerable to anyone. A dash of flour was stuck on the left side of her forehead. Her greying hair kept in a ponytail. Small noise,  small eyes,  small face. 

Everything was tiny in your mother. Even her gentle hands. Everything else was small except her heart. She have a big heart. She portrayed so much love for you and your other three siblings- one girl and two boys,  you being the youngest- it felt enough. Your father barely goes home because he was