My mother throws up tar, blobs of it splattered everywhere. Rarely does she vomit on the sink, since it always hits something. So, as the eldest, I clean up the streaks with a microfiber cloth, scrubbing every nook and cranny so my siblings won’t see. But when they’re at my father’s, she hurls the celadon wares at the wall before throwing up on the floor until my feet are in a puddle. “You’re the only one who loves me, sweetie,” she says, dark liquid dribbling down her chin as she hugs me tight, then tighter. When everything settles, I bolt to my room, trembling as I wipe it off my skin, but it’s stained, leaving a shadow in its trace despite much scrubbing.

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Ada Pelonia lives and writes in the Philippines. Her work has been nominated for Best Microfiction and appeared in HAD, Eunoia Review, Gone Lawn, Stanchion, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. Find her at adapelonia.weebly.com or on Instagram @_adawrites.