I don’t have the heart to tell her that we expected even worse.
Or that Sam has practiced countless times with me.
She’s taught me how to create a shield around myself during moments like this.
Even though it can only do so much.
I wish I could teach her some of the stuff I’ve learned in therapy.
But more than that, I just wanna get her out of here.
It’s so tempting to scoop her up and carry her out to the truck.
She’d yell and kick up a fuss, but at least she’d be safe.
I know she won't leave easily.
They’ve been married for thirty something years.
A lifetime of fear fueled excuses.
Mum starts to gather pieces of broken bottle from the floor.
But Amos insists on taking care of it.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
Typical Ma, always one to apologise profusely.
She seems overwhelmed, attempting to make the cluttered room more welcoming.
“Sorry, son. Ignore the mess. I would’ve tidied up if I'd known.”
You wouldn't have tidied for me, I think fondly.
You're embarrassed that Amos is seeing it.
She brushes a few stray papers off the edge of a table.
But it doesn’t change much.
The air carries a familiar, stagnant smell.
The stench of my childhood.
Cigarette smoke.
Urine on the bathroom floor and who knows where else.
Unwashed dishes that have started to grow fur on the rim.
Mouse droppings along the skirting boards.
Beer stains on the carpet.
Empty bottles on the mantle, the table, the floor.
Body odour has seeped into the couch over many sweltering Queensland summers.
