Her Reward
by Rebeca Balbín

You sat on the waxy wood veneer floor with knees pressed tightly against your chest. Your boney back opposing the faux wood grain of the hollow-feeling linen closet door. That house always did feel like it was made of paper (your understanding of which is amplified by holes easily punched through drywall and screams that echoed throughout every room, with no regard for whether or not doors were closed).

Behind this particular closed door were stacks of perfectly folded sheets and towels on wire shelving that reverberated as freshly laundered linens were put away on a seemingly daily basis. You learned to sense the state of things through the frequency of those reverberations. There were more linens than you could ever imagine having in a house of your own someday, yet they were all deemed essential to life’s functioning. Years of watching your grandmother, and then mother, effortlessly fold fitted sheets comes to mind—an otherwise seemingly impossible task. Fitted sheets and pillow cases tucked into non-fitted sheets in order to make easily discernible little packages. Always folded such that the tag denoting the size bed that particular set belonged to could be easily understood without having to be undone. Perfectly curated convolution, as was their specialty. This was the type of household where, even the wrapping paper was meticulously opened to be reused, ribbons ironed, rolled up and saved for another occasion—and not to save money or the planet, or anybody’s sanity, but as just another testament to how acutely people deceive themselves and others, an antidote to the chaos behind the scenes.

You sat there and prayed for it to not be true. Pleaded for God to spare you—the humiliation, the explanation, the attention. Of all days, today was not the one to cause a scene. Getting everyone out of the house on a normal day was hard enough as it was, and fell largely on your shoulders. With everyone scrambling about around you, as though the end of the world was imminent, always imminent, whatever was going on, there was simply no time—in a few hours you would need to walk on stage in a crisp white cap and gown, for what would be your mere pre-school graduation, and everyone would be watching.

The most absurd thought innocently floated into your 4 year old mind: …was there a possibility that you could be pregnant? You cannot fathom where you’d gathered the notion that pregnancy felt like being sick to your stomach, when you hadn’t the faintest idea how a baby was even conceived. Regardless, you sincerely pondered how you could have possibly fallen pregnant at the absolute most inconvenient of times. Why had He imposed upon you such an inordinate responsibility, and now?

You’ve been exhausted since the day you were born… But you were such an “easy child,” so how could this be? Unlike your sister, who screamed between bites of food, you would sleep through meals as a baby. To such an alarming degree that you were rushed to the doctor to ensure this was “normal” behavior. “Let her sleep, and count yourself blessed,” was the advice given to your mother. With that, she was able to rest easily, whatever that looked like. After all, you were her “reward for ever daring to do it again.” Even still, you’re often hit with the quip that the words, “‘I’m tired’ should be written on your tombstone.” You can’t win. No amount of rest will exonerate you of this life sentence. Perhaps that is simply the price to pay for putting up a constant facade.

*

Still sitting there, stomach panging, face flushed, arms wrapped around your knees, you quietly hoped your sister would get done using the bathroom you two shared, and soon. Your mother rushed back and forth, practically tripping over your feet as she frantically extracted the vacuum hose from the closet, that familiar sound of the endless tube snaking across the hallway. Simultaneously talking on the phone, picking a fight with your father about what he chose to wear, paying a bill, Cloroxing the bathroom sinks, all while still in her underwear. Because God forbid she left the house untidy, even if it came at the cost of being late, always late. You stared longingly at the wreath of plastic pink flowers perched on a hook on the bathroom door and counted down the seconds until you’d see it flop back upon its opening. Just this once, you’d be forced to accept this state of helplessness, because if you didn’t, you just might give birth then and there. You would have to swallow the sighs, and the pacing, and the constant frustration, and not let them propel you into action to quell the chaos, keep the peace, tame the beast, because an even greater responsibility may have just fallen on your shoulders.

*

Two sides of this story, like bookends, have lived in your head for all these years—the middle bit is hazy and filled in with anecdotes that have been repeated to you. “You looked like a ghost while sitting up there with all the other kids, your face almost indistinguishable from your *perfectly pressed* white gown.” The puke stain that lived on the maroon carpet of St. Mary’s Church for the next 12 years reminding you each Sunday (and Friday, when you’d be at choir practice instead of playing outside like a normal kid) of that most impactful stomach bug that befell you—the Immaculate Conception that almost was. You’re sure you could project details from the hundreds of other times that felt like this one from years to come of trying your absolute best to wrangle everyone out the door because you oh so loved being on time.

*

A family friend—more your older sister’s friend at the time, though that would later change, approaches as you lay on the gray floral couch in your Abuelo’s side of your mother-daughter home where you were residing while ill. She handed you a gift that you would weakly open to reveal a small teddy bear wearing a cap and gown that matched the unstained version you had donned just days prior. Naturally, before you could even muster a “thank you,” you compulsively, and carefully, folded the gift bag and tissue paper, to be added to the mounting collection in the basement for re-use, always planning ahead for the next occasion.

October 2025
London, UK