Betty Goes Home

A mother's last letter to her son. A short story

For my son. I don't know if you'll read this. Maybe you'll find it one day. Maybe that's why I can finally tell you all of this.

I used to have talent. That’s what they told me. Said I could draw anything I saw, paint it better than the photograph. I believed them, once. Before the fever hit.

One hundred and four degrees. They packed me in ice at the hospital and prayed. When I came out of it, I could still hold a pencil, but something was gone. Like a door that used to open in my head was nailed shut. I’d try to sketch something simple — a pear, a face — and it would come out wrong. Like a dream you can’t remember right after waking. My mother said it was God’s way of keeping me humble. “Pride goeth before a fall,” she liked to say. She said maybe I shouldn’t have been drawing in the first place. Maybe it opened a door to the devil.

She said a lot of things like that.

There was one drawing I made that I loved. A pencil sketch of a little boy, riding his tricycle in front of our house. It was simple, nothing fancy. But every pencil line, every shaded patch, was filled in with love. That drawing was the only one my mother ever framed. Hung it in the hallway like it was a trophy. I never saw what happened to the rest of my work. I think she hid it. Maybe she threw it away. Maybe she thought she was doing me a favor — cutting out the parts of me that didn’t serve her version of the story.

But sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t the fever at all. Maybe something in me just curled up and hid. Maybe I was learning to stop before I started. My mother had a way of tamping things down — she didn’t like waste, and to her, talent was a waste if it didn’t get you out of the house or bring in money. She told me I should be focused on getting married. That if I wanted to escape, I needed a husband. She didn’t want me chasing dreams — she wanted me chasing a way out so I’d stop being her burden. She was already taking care of me, she liked to remind me, and my father sure wasn’t helping. Her whole life was a sacrifice, and she made sure I knew it. Her self-martyrdom was so loud it drowned out everything else. Maybe I stopped drawing because I didn’t want to hear her voice anymore.

I got married young, to someone nice. Stable. He was a letter carrier with the Postal Service — steady job, good man, never raised his voice. I gave him three children: a boy, then a girl, then another boy. You.

For a while, it felt like I had done something right. A small, quiet life. A kitchen table. Kids' drawings on the fridge. He’d come home with the smell of heat and envelopes on his shirt, and I’d pretend I didn’t feel like I was playing house in someone else’s dream.

But something in me never settled. Maybe it was the voices I grew up with. Maybe it was something that happened in that house, when I was a girl — things I could never say out loud, not even now. Something about the way my mother watched everything, the way my father didn’t. Something about how silence got passed down like a family heirloom.

So I left him. The good man. The only real shot I had at peace. And in my head, I told myself it was because I didn’t deserve peace. My mother had said it enough — that I was broken, sinful, selfish. That I’d never be right in the head. Maybe I believed her. Maybe I thought the only way to balance the scale was to punish myself. To dive headfirst into chaos. To give up on the soft life and chase the hard one. Because maybe, deep down, I thought there really was a demon in me.

After the divorce, I didn’t fight hard enough. I see that now. I let her take you. I was tired, and scared, and she was loud. Loud in that holy way that sounds like God’s voice even when it’s just a woman with a permanent frown and a well-worn Bible. She told the court I was unstable. That I had demons. Said I’d forget to feed you. Said I’d leave you in the car while I was off doing drugs or turning tricks. None of that was true. But the look she gave me in that courtroom — like I was trash — made me feel like maybe it could be. And I didn’t have the strength to prove her wrong.

I tried to be strong. I really did.

Once, I forced the issue of the kids. I couldn’t get your brother and sister — they were with their dad — but I picked you up from my mother’s house and moved to another town. Enrolled you in third grade. You were quiet. You’d come home crying because you didn’t know anyone. You weren’t adjusting. I could tell. I knew what it was, even if no one had named it yet. You had anxiety — same as me. I knew the signs. I watched them in the mirror.

Maybe you were even scared of me. That would be my mother's work in you.

And there I was again, with another man. Another one who hurt. This one wasn’t any better. So one day I came to your school, crying. I was falling apart, realizing that yet again, I was with a man who hit. I told your teacher your grandfather had just died — it was the best excuse I could come up with in the moment. I just needed to get you out of there. You were confused. You looked so small. Terrified.

Later, I told you it wasn’t true. That nothing had happened to your grandfather. That I just needed a reason to take you back to your grandparents. I hated myself. I hated that I had to send you back to the same place I knew had hurt me. But I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t even keep myself safe.

I was spiraling into despair because of all this chaos since I left your dad. Really, since I left your grandparents. I had messed up your dad, and messed up my life, and yours, so I punished myself with bad men.

There was Freddy — ran a porn shop, always wore sunglasses indoors, thought it made him mysterious. He went to jail for writing bad checks. I visited him once. He said, "Don't worry, babe, it's just paper." Like prison was a paperwork issue.

Then Sam — sweet when he was sober, which wasn't often. Laughed like a kid and cried during movies. Drank too much. Fell off a boat and drowned. No funeral I know of. Just a story that got passed around.

Then Billy. With Billy I had two more children. I tried, Lord, I tried. But they got taken too. Social Services came and did what I couldn't. And as much as it wrecked me, I was relieved. Because deep down, I knew. The demon in me was real. I was destroying my children. Not on purpose, not by choice — but I was the common thread. And my mother had told me since I was little that destruction followed me, and maybe I started to believe it. Maybe I needed to. The men I brought home — Lord. You know how you think you’re lonely, but what you really are is bleeding? I picked the kind of men who could smell blood from three counties away. One of them — Tom, I think, or maybe Leonard — shoved me down into a glass coffee table. Said I was talking too loud. I still have a scar on my hip.

And worse — there was one I didn’t trust around the kids. Something about the way he looked at my daughter, the way she’d go quiet when he was around. I asked her once, and she shook her head, said nothing happened. But she wouldn’t look me in the eye. And I just — I froze. I should’ve kicked him out. I should’ve burned the house down with him inside it. But instead, I did nothing. I felt stuck. Trapped. Like if I made a move, the whole thing would come crashing down. I’ve never hated myself more than I did in those months.

Then it hit me like a sledgehammer. He probably wasn’t just going after her. Maybe he went after you, too. Or any of the other kids. My God, I thought… What have I done? That evil things were done to me was fine, I deserved it, like your grandmother said, but that I was bringing the same kind of evil on my children! It was too much.

That was the day of our car ride.

Your grandmother let me take you shopping for your birthday. You were in the passenger seat. We got you an action figure of General Custer. You were maybe seven, and you still trusted me. That’s the part that kills me now — you trusted me. We were driving back from somewhere, I don’t even remember where. I was staring at the road but not really seeing it. My hands were shaking on the wheel. I don’t know what triggered it — just this flood of everything. Your face. Your sister’s silence. My mother’s voice in my head saying I’d ruin you too. And I slammed on the brakes right there in the middle of the road.

You jerked forward in your seat. “Mom?” you said.

I turned and grabbed you. Held you like the world was ending.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. You’d all be better off without me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I need to leave the world.”

You were frozen. I could feel your little heart thudding in your chest against mine.

We stayed like that for a long time. Then I pulled away, wiped my face, and said, “Oh never mind. I’m just being silly. You forget all this, okay?”

And I started driving again.

Here's the funniest part, and by funny I mean bitter. Now I’m back in that house. My mother’s house. The same one I left again and again, always thinking it would be the last time. I moved back in because my father’s gone — well, not gone gone. Still breathing. Still staring at the walls. But Alzheimer’s took what was left of him. My mother can’t take care of him by herself. There’s no money for help. And she says I owe her. For the roof. For the years. For all the men and rugrats and chaos I dragged behind me like a busted wagon.

She still finds ways to remind me of her sacrifices. Like I forgot. Like I’m not living in the museum of them.

But here’s the thing I don’t say — I’m sick. And I’m going to die before they do. I can feel it. I don’t need to tell you, you’ll find out. I’ve managed to see a doctor and keep it a secret from her. My body is shutting down, piece by piece.

And deep down — God forgive me — I’m a little bit happy about it. I’m going to escape.

And for once, I’m not afraid.

If you find this, I hope you can forgive me. I know now it wasn't me. I always loved you, and your brother and sister. And your father. Never doubt that. But I let other people trick me into hating myself, and so I lost you. If I ever get a chance to come back, I'll fix this. All of it.

Rob Archer, Los Angeles, 2025