The Roach Mom

Eugenia Triantafyllou’s newest story will startle and scuttle and ask you to question everything, while it delights you in unsettling ways. ~ Julian and Fran, May 26, 2024

This month’s stories are by authors Jeffrey Ford, Mary Anne Mohanraj, Kat Howard, and Eugenia Triantafyllou. The first story of the month is free to read, but it’s our paying subscribers who allow us to keep publishing great stories week after week.

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The Roach Mom

by Eugenia Triantafyllou

The day before you become a cockroach, you’re chasing your brother around the house. Giannis, your brother, is one of those kids that always gets his way. You’re the other kind. The kind that looks at her shoes when people ask you a question and hides in the back of the group when her picture is taken. You both instinctively know what kind of children you are, and where you fall in the food chain, so even though he is only seven and you are twelve, you always follow his lead.

“Maria, Maria!” he screams. “Chase me around the house.”

And you chase him until your parents yell at you to be quiet.

“Maria, Maria,” he whispers. “Can you reach the Turkish delights? I want a rose-flavored one.”

And when your mom leaves the kitchen, you pull out a chair and stretch your small torso and your short arms until your fingers brush against sugarcoated paper. When you can’t reach all the way, you grab the rolling pin and push the box from the other side. It falls to the ground; powdered sugar paints the yellow tiles frothy white. The delights spread in all directions, but there are still a couple of good ones in the box. You split them—your brother is more than happy to share—and when your parents rush inside to see what that noise was about, they know it was all you.

Dad says, “You could have just asked.”

You can’t explain to him that asking would make you even smaller and more insignificant. Now you are a hero in your brother’s eyes, even if only for an afternoon.

“Maria, Maria!” your brother begs. “Lift me up to that branch. I want to see far away.” And you wrap your arms around his bony knees and lift him. You push as far up as your back lets you. He is a strong little kid; he grips the branch with both hands and sticks to it like a curly-haired limpet. When he feels confident enough, he kicks his feet, trying to be free of your grasp.

“Let go, let go!”

“You sure?” you ask. Even though he hurts you, you still don’t want to let go. Something small inside of you says you shouldn’t listen to him. But you always do.

“Let me go!”

And you let go. Your brother flails for what seems like the most painful minute in his short life and then he falls like the strangest apple in the grove. He falls sideways. A sharp wail leaves his lips and he clasps his ankle.

“Mom, Mom!” he screams, and hobbles toward the house. Not Maria anymore, but Mom.

Your mother runs out, fusses over him, and carries him inside. She knows you had something to do with it and she shows it with a glance. “We’ll talk later,” she threatens.

#

Giannis has a broken ankle, and later, as you both sit on his bed looking at picture books, your mother comes with two glasses of milk.

“Drink up,” she says flatly and a little sad. “Both of you. It’s your last day as siblings.”

She is looking at you. Only at you. Then she sits on the side of the bed and caresses your hair.

“It’s a curse. When a child breaks the trust of their parents, they stop being a part of the family.” She swallows a little harder as she says the next part. “They belong to the Roach Mom.”

“The Roach Mom?”

Droplets of sweat form over your mom’s eyebrows. “It means that tomorrow morning you’ll wake up as a cockroach.”

“Cool!” your brother yells, but now it’s your turn to sweat and swallow. You can’t tell if your mother means this. But she seems as serious as ever. And she has always been serious with you.

“Will I go to school again? Play with my brother?” That is your first fear. Your only fear for now.

Your mother nods. “It’s a slow process. You’ll do everything as before, but it will be harder. Different.”

She reaches out and squeezes your cheek so hard, she leaves finger marks. “I just want to remember you as you were. Still a child. Still my daughter. Enjoy tonight, because tomorrow she will call on you.”

You glance over your mother’s shoulder at your father slouching by the door.

“We’ll support you any way we can,” he says. His voice is serious, but you are not sure if it’s aimed at you or Mom. “You will still be our child. Sort of.”

#

The morning you become a cockroach you wake up with an emptiness in your chest. Your body is lighter than usual when you jump off the bed and run to the mirror to take a look. First you press at your cheeks the same way Mom did the day before. They look the same, soft and round and a little downy, but something is off. You count your fingers and your toes next. You check your entire body and comb your hair. Except for a couple of zits and a hollowness in your chest, you can’t pinpoint a part of you that has changed. You stick out your tongue and look deep inside like you are about to retch, but the only thing you can see are your tonsils, pinkish against the red black of your throat.

You pretend yesterday was a dream or that your parents were just trying to scare you, and then you dress for school. As you pass your brother’s room, you peek your head inside. His ankle is still broken, the white cast held high on two couch pillows.

“How is it going?” you ask, and he startles.