My Mother (double drabble)

My younger brother and I only got into three fist-fights growing up.  They weren’t really fights since I would shove him to the ground with one hand and it would be over.  We’d apologize.  I never had to use my fists – not once.  And then you came along, with your jeering grin, trash talk on your lips, slander on your tongue.  You said those things about my mother.  You said it deliberately.  You said it to my face.  So I made your face know what I thought.  I didn’t care that you were bigger.  I didn’t care that I hit you until your eye swelled shut and your nose gushed crimson blood.  You were talking about my mother.  My single mother who raised us by herself.  My mother who worked her fingers to the bone, never complaining.  My mother who chased away nightmares, made home feel safe.  My mother who cried at night, when she thought no one could hear, because no one was there to help her.  You ran away crying, left your teeth on the pavement.  And I never did tell anyone what happened.  Because I’m not proud.  But you should have left my mother out of it.