Survival Instincts

by Christina Tudor

The year we accidentally adopted a pregnant hamster, my mother grew roots. Spindly vines snaked up her arms and branches jutted out of her back like a misshapen vertebra. She got angry when my dad didn’t even notice the string of leaves protruding from her ears. “You’d only notice me if I left, if your dinner got cold, if you finally went hungry.” The roots bound her to the floor. She struggled, kicking at the twigs that trapped her there like netting. No—kindling. She fought her way through like she was running through sand, through a force even bigger than herself. The branches blossomed and crab apples dangled from her earlobes and the meaty underside of her triceps.

My mother had fingers once but now branches splayed out from her palms like a spiderweb. I reached out for one of the apples.

“Don’t eat that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s mine.”

I wanted her to braid my hair like she used to but the branches weren’t as nimble as her fingers. She couldn’t hug me either, said I might break her, and on top of that, the pregnant hamster wouldn’t let me hold her. Instead, she backed into the corner of her cage and peed everywhere, marking her territory.

My father offered to trim my mother’s branches, to tug at the roots. But we couldn’t ignore the bark any longer. I reached for it, wanted to peel it away like dead skin.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“You’ll pick me apart like leftovers.”

The hamster gave birth to fleshy babies who were pale pink like chewed gum. They didn’t survive the night. I went to find the babies later to bury them in the backyard but they were gone.

“Sometimes, in the wild, mothers eat their young,” my mother said.

“Why?”

“Because she needs to eat too.”

Christina Tudor is a writer living in Washington, D.C. originally hailing from upstate New York. Despite being a child-free cat lady, she loves writing about motherhood and caregiving with a speculative twist. She can be reached on social media @christinaltudor.