The Mother's Curse

The days following Henry's departure were a blur of tense silence and half-hearted attempts at normalcy. Vic thought things might improve without his father's oppressive presence, but instead, a new form of turmoil settled over the household.

Mary's frustration, once contained by fear of Henry, found a new outlet. Vic became the target of her discontent. She had always been a subdued woman, but now her voice carried a sharp edge, her words cutting deeper than any physical blow Henry had ever dealt.

"Vic, come here," she called one morning, her voice laced with a bitterness that had become all too familiar.

Vic approached cautiously, unsure of what he had done this time. "Yes, Mom?"

She held up his report card, her face a mask of disappointment. "What is this?" she demanded, shaking the paper. "C's and D's? Do you think this is acceptable?"

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'll try harder," Vic mumbled, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Try harder?" Mary scoffed. "You sound just like your father. Always full of excuses. Don't you dare grow up to be like him, Vic. Do you hear me?"

Vic nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yes, Mom."

But the phrase echoed in his mind, a relentless refrain: *Don't grow up to be like your father.*

Every mistake, every misstep was a reminder that he was doomed to follow in Henry's footsteps. It was as if he was inherently flawed, a defective copy of a man he despised.

One evening, the three of them sat in the living room. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the old house settling. Sarah was reading a book, her face set in a permanent scowl. Vic was trying to concentrate on his homework, but Mary's presence loomed over him, her disapproval palpable.

"Vic, did you take out the trash?" Mary's voice pierced the silence.

Vic looked up, panic flashing in his eyes. "I forgot. I'll do it now."

Mary sighed dramatically. "Of course you forgot. Just like your father. He never did anything right either."

The comparison stung. Vic grabbed the trash bag and headed outside, his mind racing. No matter what he did, it was never enough. He would always be compared to Henry, always fall short in Mary's eyes.

As he walked back inside, he heard Mary and Sarah talking in hushed tones.

"He's just like him," Mary was saying. "I can see it already. The same weakness, the same lack of responsibility."

"Maybe if you weren't so hard on him..." Sarah began, but Mary cut her off.

"I'm hard on him because I have to be. Do you want him to end up like Henry? Drunk, violent, a complete failure?"

Vic stood frozen in the doorway, the weight of their words crushing him. He slipped back to his room, feeling the walls close in around him. The house that was supposed to be a refuge felt more like a prison.

Days turned into weeks, and Vic's self-esteem eroded further with each passing comment. Mary's words became a mantra, defining his every action, his every thought. He stopped trying in school, convinced that no matter how hard he worked, he would never escape his father's shadow.

One Saturday afternoon, Vic was in the backyard, trying to fix his bike. The chain had slipped off, and his small hands struggled to get it back in place. Mary watched from the kitchen window, a scowl etched on her face.

"You're doing it wrong," she called out, stepping outside. "Here, let me show you."

She knelt down and took over, her movements quick and efficient. Vic watched, feeling a mix of shame and frustration.

"See?" she said, standing up and brushing her hands off. "It's not that hard. Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?"

"I was trying, Mom," Vic said quietly.

"Trying isn't good enough," she snapped. "You have to be better. You have to be nothing like your father."

Vic nodded, biting back the tears. He hated crying, hated showing any sign of weakness. It only proved Mary right.

The next day at school, Vic's teacher, Mrs. Collins, noticed his sullen demeanor. She pulled him aside after class.

"Is everything okay, Vic?" she asked gently. "You seem a bit down lately."

"I'm fine," Vic lied, avoiding her gaze.

"You know you can talk to me if something's bothering you," Mrs. Collins said. "Sometimes it helps to get things off your chest."

Vic hesitated. He wanted to tell her, to unload the burden he carried. But he couldn't. He was afraid of what she might think, afraid she would see him the same way Mary did.

"I'm fine, really," he insisted.

Mrs. Collins looked unconvinced but didn't press further. "Alright. Just remember, I'm here if you need anything."

Vic nodded and hurried out of the classroom. He wandered the halls aimlessly, lost in his thoughts. The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, but he wasn't ready to go home. Home was where the curse awaited, where he would always be compared to a man he never wanted to become.

He found himself at the edge of the woods behind the school, a place he often retreated to when the world felt too heavy. He sat down on a fallen log, listening to the rustling leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Here, at least, he could breathe.

*Don't grow up to be like your father.*

The words played over and over in his mind, a relentless torment. He wanted to scream, to shout, to tell the world he wasn't Henry, that he could be better. But deep down, he feared he never would be.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the trees, Vic made his way back home. The house was quiet, a deceptive calm that hid the storm brewing within. He entered cautiously, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Mary was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She glanced up as he walked in, her expression unreadable.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"I was just... thinking," Vic said, hoping to avoid another argument.

"Thinking won't get you anywhere," Mary said sharply. "Actions do. Remember that."

Vic nodded, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders. He retreated to his room, the only place he could find a semblance of peace. But even there, the walls whispered Mary's curse, a constant reminder of the destiny he was desperate to escape.

As he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he made a silent vow. He would find a way to prove Mary wrong. He would not be like Henry. He would carve his own path, no matter how difficult. But for now, he was trapped in a cycle of doubt and fear, unsure of how to break free.

The darkness closed in, and Vic drifted into a restless sleep, the curse echoing in his dreams. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: he would have to fight every step of the way to escape the shadow of his father and the weight of his mother's disdain.