The Weight of Yellow

The scent of mothballs always hit me first. It clung to everything in Mom's house, a stale, suffocating perfume that spoke volumes about a life lived indoors. Today, it felt heavier than usual. I walked through the cramped living room, dodging stacks of newspapers and porcelain cats, finding her in the kitchen, perched on a stool, stirring something in a chipped ceramic bowl.

"Hey, Ma," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "What's cooking?"

She didn't look up. "Lemon curd," she mumbled. "For the church bake sale."

Lemon curd. Always lemon curd. It was her specialty, her offering to a world she otherwise kept at arm's length. I knew she secretly prided herself on it, even though she'd never admit it. "Need any help?"

"Just stay out of my way, Sarah. You always make a mess."

That stung, as it always did. I was 42 years old, a grown woman with a life of my own, and still, I was the clumsy child who couldn't do anything right. I leaned against the counter, watching her stir. The yellow of the curd was so bright, almost jarring against the faded wallpaper and the dim light. "Ma, we need to talk about… about moving."

Her hand stopped. She finally looked up, her eyes, usually sharp and critical, were clouded with a weariness I hadn't noticed before. "Don't start, Sarah. I'm not leaving this house."

"But it's too much for you! The stairs, the garden… you can barely manage."

"I manage just fine."

"No, you don't. I saw you struggling with the groceries yesterday. And what if you fall again?"

She turned away, resuming her stirring with a renewed vigor. "This house is all I have left."

I knew what she meant. It wasn't just a house; it was a repository of memories, both good and bad. My father had died in this house, twenty years ago. It was where I grew up, where I scraped my knees and learned to ride a bike. It was also a place of unspoken tensions, of quiet dinners and averted gazes. A place where joy felt like a stolen moment.

"But it's not healthy for you, Ma. There are lovely apartments near me, with everything you need… we could even get you a cat!"

She slammed the spoon down. "A cat! You think a cat will replace him? Replace everything? This house is where he… where we…"

Her voice broke. I saw a tear trace a path down her wrinkled cheek. For a moment, the familiar wall she kept up crumbled, revealing the raw pain beneath. I went to her, hesitantly, and put my hand on her shoulder. It felt frail, so much smaller than I remembered.

"Ma," I said softly. "It's okay. I know it's hard. But you don't have to be alone. Let me help you."

She didn't say anything, just stood there, trembling. Then, she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Maybe… maybe you can just help me finish this curd," she whispered. "It needs more lemon."

I smiled, a small, hesitant smile. It wasn't a breakthrough, not really. But it was a start. As I squeezed the lemon, the bright yellow juice seemed to fill the room, chasing away some of the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to lighten the weight of yellow, together.