Mother

The noise of his heavy steps always came first. They would break the night before my father even reached the door—loud, stomping, impossible to ignore. The hungry mosquitoes hovered in the heat. My mother held the kerosene lamp trying to burn them with the flame. I was always awake, afraid of what would come next. Sweat clung to her forehead as she moved quickly, trying to quieten us, as if silence might protect us. It never did.

He would come in drunk, demanding attention, making my sisters dance while the record played the crackling music at full volume. He loved old Mexican and corny romantic tunes. If my mother protested, his voice would change. The air in the room would change too. We all felt it. Suddenly it all exploded and the sounds of chairs dragged on the cement floor would change everything. I tried to hide under the sheets. Too late, he had seen me.

That was how I learned what a father could be. And what a mother had to endure.

            I grew up in a harsh, dry part of Brazil, the northeast, where life has never been easy. Man had to be tough and women to put up with them. Violence always permeated the air as if it was part of the weather. Maybe in other, more affluent parts of town people had a better life but it took many years for me to find out. The evenings were heavy with heat, and somehow, they always seemed to announce my father’s return. Even before he arrived, we could feel it.

Alcohol made him louder, rougher, more unpredictable. In our small house, there was nowhere to go. My mother would place herself between him and us whenever she could. I knew some of that violence could always land on me. Yet, even as a child, I tried to stand up to him in small ways, thinking I could protect her. I couldn’t.

In that little place, I learned early what it meant to be a man. Violence was not hidden—it was explained. Once, when I asked why a neighbour’s wife screamed so much, my father said that some women only learned through beatings.

My mother didn’t accept that. “Lay a hand on me and I’ll pour hot water in your ears,” she told him once. She had courage, quiet but firm. But courage wasn’t enough to stop what came. It didn’t protect her. It didn’t protect us. In time, I would feel those same beatings myself, as part of what he called learning to be a man. Early on I noticed the way he looked towards me with angry, fierce, penetrating eyes. “I will cut your ears off if you make any noise.” That was enough for me to slide out of the room, afraid of the menacing words.

One night, during the rainy season, a storm opened a hole in our roof. Water poured into the house while my father slept. My mother woke up and tried to push the water out with a broom, we tried to help her, all alone in the dark, while the rain kept falling.

By morning, everything was back in its place. She was proud of that. “We may be poor,” she used to say, “but we don’t have to be filthy.” Her name was Joana. She married my father when she was sixteen. He was passing through as a truck driver when he met her father, who decided she would make a good wife. That was enough.

My father was eighteen years older than her when they married. He had already lived a hard life, travelling across the dry and sometimes muddy back lands. My mother had lost her own mother at eight years old. By sixteen, her life had already been decided. At the time, I didn’t question any of this. Now I do.

We moved from place to place, following whatever work my father could find. A small shop, then a bar, and for a time, even a brothel across the railway line.

Once, my mother sent me there with his lunch. I remember the dust, the heat, and the feeling that I was crossing into somewhere forbidden. Women stood in doorways, calling out. One of them grabbed me, laughing, saying I was a beautiful boy. I managed to slip away and ran all the way home. That world was his. But it was always close to us. As it was the source of income, we had to accept it until he could find another business.

At home, his authority was absolute. Most of the time, his deep low, monotone voice was enough. When it wasn’t, the belt was. Kindness, when it appeared, felt strange—almost uncomfortable. Was there anything to enjoy or life would always be the same? Even the word “like”, to express wish or preference, wasn’t mentioned. It was not part of the vocabulary.

He gave me things sometimes. Boots that hurt my feet. Clothes that made my skin itch. Once, a watch that I lost and was never forgiven for. After that, there were no more gifts. From my mother, I got what she could make—simple clothes, carefully sewn. But what she really gave us was persistence. It was almost as if she had a mission to conduct and we were the rewards she would get in the end.

There were times I didn’t see her clearly. As I went to school, I found it hard not to notice her simplicity. I was ashamed of her lack of education. Once, I compared her to a friend’s mother who was a teacher. I saw the hurt in her face straight away. I regretted it, but I couldn’t take it back.

As a child, I blamed my father for everything—for her illnesses, for the pregnancies, for the children she lost. I didn’t understand then how little control she had over any of it. That understanding came much later.

One night, I saw her holding a knife. “I’m going to kill that woman,” she said, shaking. She was talking about someone my father was involved with. My grandfather managed to calm her down. She put the knife back.

At the time, I didn’t understand how she could feel jealous of him. Later, I realised it wasn’t just about love. It was about survival. Whatever he spent outside the house was something taken from us, her children. The children he wouldn’t pay much attention to.

Education became the way out. There were no schools past the early years in our town, and my older brother suggested moving to another city. Mother saw hope in it and insisted we had to leave. Father only considered sending my older brother out. However, I overheard her saying that if he didn’t agree, she would wash clothes for other people to pay for my studies. She knew it and it changed everything. That stayed with me.

Years later, after living with him for 43 years, my father died. I brought her to Australia.

For the first time, I saw a different side of her. She laughed more. She played. There was a lightness in her that I had never really seen before. It felt like something in her had finally been allowed to come out.

But life didn’t leave her in peace for long. Back in Brazil, she had to face the struggles of her daughters, caught in relationships that reminded me too much of what she had lived through. It felt like a cycle that didn’t want to end. A sister nearly died when her abusive partner stabbed her. Later, this sister’s own daughter was killed in an episode of domestic violence by an estranged, angry husband.

Then came Alzheimer’s. At first, it felt like losing her. It was shocking not to be recognised by her when arriving at her place after a year away. “Who is that man?” She asked my sister. “Your son who lives in Australia.” But slowly, something else appeared. As her memory faded, so did much of the pain she had carried for so long. In its place, there was a kind of freedom.

And yet, she laughed easily. She played like a child. We had moments together that were light, almost joyful in a way I had never known with her before. I played the old music she used to listen to and she reacted to it. That time lasted a few years. I took her to places that could help to set her free, but it was all too late.

I used to think strength meant enduring everything without breaking. But my mother showed me something different. Even after everything, there was something in her that had never been destroyed—something gentle, something whole. How could I make sense of it? What was all about? Why did she have to endure such a hard life?

If angels exist, they don’t always come from heaven. Some are born into hard lives—and stay.