The Longevity of Wallpaper in a Cardboard Box
by McKenna Seiger
University of the Incarnate Word
McKenna Seiger is a junior at the University of the Incarnate Word. She will graduate in May 2025 with a degree in Fashion Management, a concentration in Apparel Product Design, and a minor in Creative Writing.
It is said that a mother first feels a connection with her child the moment the knowledge of motherhood enters her head for the first time. Like a sort of kismet first meeting, the mother feels nothing but love at the thought of her unborn baby alone. As a child, I always wondered what my own mother felt upon my conception—being thrust into motherhood. I wondered if she had felt that same connection even before I was fully sentient. I liked to picture her, tiny and twenty-four, sitting on a yoga ball in our cluttered apartment, doing the stretches she had learned at Lamaze class. I liked to imagine that my father, at one point, felt her round stomach and marveled at the little person I would become one day. I wondered if, in bed, they talked about the three of us while I floated around in embryonic fluid like an orbiting planet.
There is a story from a time after I was born: I was sweet and nestled in a baby carrier, sleeping soundly. My mother and grandma are moving out of our San Marcos apartment in the middle of the night. The reason why is never told. Together, they take down the daisy-patterned wallpaper from my nursery, roll it up, and store it in a UPS box that would later find its way into my grandma’s garage. They had created my nursery together, something that sounds so silly to me whenever I hear this story. They are not close, nor have they ever been. My grandma kisses my mom on the forehead, and they cry. The three of us leave the complex in my grandma's Toyota Corolla with the headlights off. We do not come back. The wallpaper never gets hung up again, but sometimes when visiting home, I will open up the box to see how it's faring. It is brown now, with oxidation marks at the upturned edges. It is hard to imagine that it ever looked new.
Once, when helping my grandma organize her closet, I found a letter my dad had written my mom on a legal pad. It had been folded neatly underneath their annulment paperwork, in a perfectly opened envelope. I suppose my grandma hid it from her as a way to try and shield her from whatever it was he had to say. I hid it in the waistband of my pajamas and read it under the covers of my bed later that night. He had called her something sickeningly sweet, like baby or honey, telling her he was ready to change for her, or rather, for me. He had told her he had picked my name specifically for me and that it was his proudest achievement. He had written my name on it with loopy cursive that I had never seen before. I tried to picture him in my brain when I read it. I imagined him to be tall and handsome—like some sort of prince, someone fit to be with my mother. I imagined he wrote this after he had given up his rights to me—like a change of heart. I know it wasn’t true, but the thought made my heart feel less hollow. I fold up the letter neatly when I finish and tuck it between my bed frame and mattress. I do not read it again. I think about changing my name; I hate my name.
I downloaded Facebook in the eighth grade to look up a photo of my middle school graduation. I decided to type in his name on a whim—to finally put a face to the name. His profile was the third option, but it was obviously him. He was a fireman three towns over, and his bio featured the name of his son. His pride and joy. My brother looked just like me. Or we looked just like him. I am not sure what the difference in phrase really means to me or whether it truly matters. We all had the same eyes—the feature I am most complimented on. In his most recent post, he is holding my half brother on his shoulders and smiling brightly against a backlit beach. They look happy; he loves his dad. From the posts, I could see that he was three years younger and perfect in the ways I seemingly was not. I turned the phone around later that night at dinner and showed my mom. It was meant to make her laugh and to make me feel better. I am not sure I should’ve been sad at all, as you cannot feel for something you have never had. She cried. She told me I was her life. She was sorry. My grandma called her an idiot. I said I didn’t care.
In my memory, I know there was a time in my life when I thought everyone only had a mom and a grandma. On Father's Day, I would draw my grandma a picture of the three of us sitting together in a mess of circles and lines. It was very far from our reality, but close to how I envisioned our love for each other in my head. I was in the middle, closely nestled into my grandmother's side. While my other hand was tangled in my mother's. There is no room for someone else in this picture, as my worldview only had them in mind. Sometimes I wish my worldview was still as small.