There was a time in my life where my mother would read bedtime stories to me with a voice that always made me fall asleep. Comfort filled me, making me know that I'll have a place to come back to if I ever get lost. My mother seemed to track her way from me to go down the hall into a room that seemed once useless to me, but now the only place she could keep herself in. I could tell when she needed a new place to go to because I would smell endless paint fumes, making my father worry that I may become like her.
Confusion filled my mind, wondering why I was staring at a door that blocked all the connections I had with my mother but for some reason I still put my fist against the door in hopes that maybe she will let me in. I knew I wouldn't  be answered, so I sat at the door for a while, listening in case she cracked the door open.
I was only six when my mother would spend so many hours of the day in a room I was never allowed in. Paint drifted out from underneath the door filling the house with its smell, forever catching my attention. There were little blue letters hanging on the door that was spelled out a countless amount of times, but the name was always left   unknown. I was caught many times by my father trying to spell out the letters, but he never told me what they meant. Pushing me aside, I was left to go down the hall into the living room while he checked on my mother.
When the day was almost over and I could see the headlights from the cars driving by flash through my windows in my room, she would come out. Paint drips that fell from the wall onto her body made her look colorful enough to make my once every night bedtime stories become hopeful that maybe this week she'll tell me just one. As quickly as the stories vanished so did the sweet feeling of soft lips on my forehead.
My father would leave me and my mother in the house most of the day. It was as if he couldn't take the paint fumes. As if he thought it would get to his lungs and poison him with the same kind of feeling my mother had. I watched as he closed the door, slamming it as if he needed to be somewhere. I never stopped him because I knew he would be back before my mother came out of the room, as if to show that at least someone will always come back for me.