Mom and Dad

Mom and Dad is a sad story about a little girl named Mischa who thinks she has the perfect family. It is based on a story from Russia.

Hello, I’m Mischa and I’m 7 years old. I have blonde hair and blue eyes. I lived in a large apartment with my Mom and Dad. I had a lot of toys. I even had my own room. It was big and bright and on the walls, I put my drawings.

I loved to draw. I drew pictures of mom and dad and me. I drew us standing in front of a big house with the sun smiling down on us. My mom is the kindest mother in the world, and my dad is the strongest father. I love them very much.

On weekends, we would all go out for a walk together. I would be riding my bike and mom and dad would be holding hands. They were smiling and laughing and I cycled alongside them.

My mother would always ask, “Misha, aren’t you tired yet?”

“No mom,” I would always reply, “I’m only getting started!”

Mom and Dad would look at me and laugh. I laughed too.

In the evenings, when we were sitting at home, I played with my mother. We loved to play board games. Sometimes we would paint pictures together. Dad was always reading his newspaper. Then he would go to the kitchen to put the kettle on and we would all sit and drink tea with cake. I loved to eat cake, even though my mom told me it was bad for my teeth.

One night, dad came home from work very late. I had already gone to bed. Dad rang the doorbell and banged loudly on the door. It was so loud, it woke me up. but I didn’t get out of bed. Mom went to open the door, and I heard my father’s heavy footsteps along the corridor. I heard them talking.

“Why are you so late?” my mother asked. “I was beginning to worry.”

“What’s the matter?” my dad asked. “Can’t a man stay late at work?”

My father’s voice didn’t sound like it normally did. He spoke loudly and slurred his words.

“Kohl, hush!” my mother said. “You’ll wake Mischa.”

“Don’t hush me!” my father bellowed. “If I want to speak in my own house, I will speak!”

“You’re drunk,” my mom said. “Where have you been tonight?”

“I’m drunk?” my dad growled. “I’m not drunk! Pour me some tea!”

“I still have to wash the dishes,” replied my mom. “Pour it yourself, okay?”

“What?” my father said angrily. “It’s so difficult to pour tea for your husband?”

“Kohl, don’t shout!” said my mother. “You’ll wake your daughter. She has school tomorrow.”

“Pour me some tea!” my father demanded.

“Kohl, look at your eyes,” my mother said. “What’s wrong with your pupils? They’re so wide. Are you on drugs?”

“Can’t a man have a little fun anymore?” my father shouted.

“Please Kohl, just go to bed and sleep it off,” my mother begged.

Just then, the phone rang and my mother went to answer it. She talked for a while and then went back to the kitchen.

“Who called you?” asked Dad.

I could hear the anger in his voice and I started to feel a little scared.

“It was my friend Lida on the phone,” Mom sighed.

“Lida?” said my dad. “Who or what is a Lida? I don’t know any Lida! And where did you get that ring?”

“Calm down Kohl. Don’t you remember? I bought it last week.”

“And where were you yesterday when I came home after work?” Dad yelled.

“Kohl, hush! I went to the store. There was a queue,” my mother said quietly.

“Queue? There was no queue! And you did not buy that ring yourself! You’ve got someone on the side! Confess! You’re cheating on me!”

“What do you mean? Why would you say that? Go to sleep Kohl!”

“I asked you a question! Answer me! You’ve got a boyfriend, haven’t you?”

“No I don’t have anyone,” said my mother and she burst into tears. I heard her sniffling and blowing her nose.

“Don’t start crying! Tears won’t help you now!”

“I don’t have anyone! I just love you, Kohl. Only you!”

“You’re lying!” Dad cried.

I heard a loud crash and my mother screamed. I was very scared but I ran downstairs. My mother was lying on the kitchen floor. Her face was all red. Dad was standing over her.

“Mom, Mom, what’s wrong?” I cried as I ran up to her.

“Nothing Mischa,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m alright. Go back to your room.”

I wanted to say something more, but my father interrupted me. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me off my feet.

“What’s the matter, you don’t hear so good?” he shouted. “Or maybe you don’t speak the language? Get out of here!”

“Mischa, do as your father says. Go back upstairs. Everything will be fine.”

I burst into tears and ran back to my room. I buried my face in the pillow and wept. I was really scared. I could still hear my father yelling at my mother. I heard thumps and the sound of my mother crying . I cried too, along with her. Dad called my mother bad names. I heard these words before. I knew they were words you are not supposed to say.

Dad yelled, “Admit it!” and mom just said, “No! No one!”

There was a scuffle and sounds of a struggle. Then it was silent. The silence scared me. I couldn’t hear my mother anymore. I even held my breath so I could hear better, but I couldn’t hear anything. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, dreading what I might see.

In the kitchen, my mother lay on the floor. Her eyes were closed and she was deathly still. My dad just stood there. He looked like he was in a daze. I ran over and knelt down next to my mother. I was kneeling in her blood.

“Mom, are you OK?” I cried. “Mom, wake up! Mom!”

My father was holding a knife in his hand. It was covered in blood.

“Dad… Dad, what’s wrong with mom?” I cried.

“She’s sleeping,” he replied softly. “She fell asleep… sleep… sleep…”

“Mom… wake up…” I buried my face in her neck and cried even more.

Dad looked down at the knife, then at my mother and me. Then suddenly he cried out, “What have I done? Oh my God! What have I done?”

He dropped the knife and it landed on the floor with a clatter.

“I love you, Mischa… I’m sorry…” he moaned. “I love your mother… I’m sorry… I love you both… Forgive me if you can…”

With that, my father opened the window and jumped out. Our apartment was on the 11th floor.

There was a long silence, then a thud followed by the screech of car brakes and the squeal of tires. Then it was deathly quiet. I held onto my mom’s body and cried.

Later they told me that if the fall didn’t kill my father, then the cars that ran him over certainly did. They said when they found me, I was still clutching my mother and I was covered in her blood. They had to pull me off her. I didn’t want to let go.

I’m Misha, I’m 7 years old and I’m an orphan…