He didn’t want to open his mouth this time
She brought the red toothbrush again.
The same one with the dinosaur on the handle.
It used to be fun, but not anymore.
He pressed his lips together and turned his head.
She said “just for a minute,” but minutes feel long.
He knew what was coming and didn’t like it.
The toothpaste looked different today
It was the same tube, but it smelled stronger.
She squeezed too much, and he noticed.
The bristles were stiff from yesterday’s brushing.
He touched them with his finger. Still wet.
She wiped his hand and told him not to touch it.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the sink.
He asked if it would hurt again
Not because it ever had, but he remembered gagging.
She said “only if you squirm.”
That didn’t help. It made things worse.
He stepped back, holding his tiny toothbrush like a sword.
She crouched down, trying to smile.
He didn’t smile back.
They always did it in the same spot
In front of the bathroom mirror, with the same song playing.
He didn’t like that song anymore.
The mirror felt too high. The light too bright.
She kept saying “open wide” like it was a game.
It wasn’t a game to him.
It was something to survive.
She counted out loud every time
One-two-three-four. Like brushing had a timer.
He knew the numbers by heart now.
Still, they made his shoulders tense.
She said “don’t forget the back ones.”
He didn’t know where those were.
It all felt like guesswork.
The taste didn’t match the color
It was supposed to be strawberry. But it burned a little.
He spit too early, and she sighed.
The foam dripped down his chin.
She wiped it fast, not saying anything.
He could tell she was tired.
But she still tried again.
Brushing always ended with a promise
Sometimes stickers. Sometimes stories.
Today she said they’d go to the park.
He didn’t believe it. Not really.
He just wanted her to stop talking.
To stop saying “almost done” when they weren’t.
He knew how long “almost” could last.
He hated the sound of the brush inside his mouth
It scratched and scraped. Like tiny footsteps.
Too loud for such a small space.
She said “it’s just the sound of clean.”
That didn’t make it better.
It felt like a lie made for kids.
He wanted quiet, not clean.
Some days she used her finger instead
Only when he was too upset.
She wrapped it in gauze and moved slowly.
That was better. Less noise.
He didn’t mind the mint then.
She whispered instead of counting.
And didn’t ask for a smile.
He asked what would happen if they stopped
She didn’t answer the first time.
Then said “the sugar bugs would come.”
He didn’t know what those were.
But they sounded worse than brushing.
She never showed pictures. Only warned.
That made them scarier somehow.
Night brushing was even harder
He was always more tired. More stubborn.
She rushed more. Spoke less.
There were fewer promises. Fewer songs.
He fought harder. Bit the brush once.
She didn’t yell. Just stopped and sighed.
They skipped that night. He remembered.
The toothbrush got replaced quietly
One morning it was blue instead of red.
She said nothing about it.
He noticed but didn’t ask.
The bristles were softer. The handle smaller.
Maybe it was meant for easier mornings.
But nothing else felt different.
He liked brushing his stuffed animal’s teeth
They didn’t resist. Didn’t spit.
He used a dry brush and made swishing sounds.
She watched him from the door.
Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t join.
Sometimes he brushed longer that way.
Maybe because no one counted.
He didn’t understand why teeth mattered so much
They looked fine in the mirror.
No pain. No holes. No cracks.
He asked if grownups brushed, too.
She said yes, but he never saw it.
That made it feel unfair.
Mornings were a little easier than nights
The light helped. And cartoons in the background.
She let him pick the song sometimes.
He brushed better when no one watched.
She tried to praise him anyway.
That ruined it a little.
He liked brushing in silence.
There was a chart once, with stars
He got bored of it quickly.
The stars didn’t mean much.
They peeled off after a few days.
She forgot to add new ones.
He stopped checking the chart.
They stopped mentioning it.
She said the dentist would be proud
He didn’t know the dentist.
Had never seen their face.
But the name felt heavy.
Like someone watching from far away.
He wondered if they’d know he cried sometimes.
She said they wouldn’t.
He brushed longer when she wasn’t looking
Maybe to prove something.
Maybe to feel something.
He didn’t know.
But the sink felt calmer.
The mirror kinder.
When it was just him.