Late to work, scrambling school runs, an urgent dentist appointment — every red light seems to burn longer than the last. But now, approaching a destination I don’t want to reach, the streets glow green.
I miss the turning twice, stealing more time before he leaves my car, leaves me, goes somewhere I can’t kiss him goodnight. Those weeks he spends at his dad’s always feel so long. What will I do without him?
He’s not talking to me, my baby boy. I used to twirl his curls between my fingers, pressing my lips to his head and breathing in the scent of pure love. Now those curls are quaffed, as is the fashion with all teenage boys. And yet, as he sits red-faced in the passenger seat, he’s just a child.
The other night, socks soaked with suds, he stood on the flooded kitchen floor. I was more surprised he’d attempted to do his own washing. Not separating lights and darks, the temperature far too high, stuffing five pods into the drawer — that was to be expected. A deer in the headlights, he stood, holding his boiled white shirt — now blotched pink. “It’s okay, I’ll fix it,” I laughed and handed him the mop.
I try to ruffle his hair, but he jerks his head away, pressing his face against the glass.
I know young boys think their mothers are overbearing and embarrassing. But, given the circumstances… When I saw Mrs Bradley in the supermarket yesterday, she told me it was the first time she’d left her bed since it happened. I was in the dairy aisle when I heard her world-shattering wail at the rack of newspapers, her daughter’s murder still dominating the headlines. I hugged my son tighter last night.
They chose a nice picture, at least. She was a pretty girl. She went to the same school as my boy. He never tells me much about his day, grunting, ‘fine’, darting upstairs to play League of Legendries, or whatever he’s into these days. But I know he’s hurting, though he says it’s ‘none of my business’.
I haven’t called his father yet, to warn him what our son will be like when he next sees him. He’s busy with his new wife, her kids, and the one she’s been carrying for five months. He’ll take my son’s side of the argument — he always does. Anything to not be the bad guy.
I drive past three empty parking spaces and loop the roundabout again, but I’m out of detours and excuses. My voice and my heart break when we arrive, “It’s time.”
“You’re not giving me a choice!” He doesn’t move, arms crossed. I’ve never seen him so spiteful, and I wonder how well I truly know him.
But I still just want to hold him, as I’m sure Mrs Bradley aches to do with her little girl. A mother’s love is so deep you could drown, but I can’t ignore another mother’s cries.
“Did you give that poor girl a choice?”
The police station sits fogged in the window behind him, and now my baby boy sobs, harder than ever, wide-eyed and stunned, just as he was in the kitchen, destroying the washing machine, destroying evidence. And I have to accept the truth — this time I can’t fix it.
Billie-Leigh Burns is a writer from Liverpool, UK. Her work has been featured by 50 Word Stories, 101 Words, Funny Pearls, and The Mersey Review.
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