Page 71 of Silk and Sirens

“Mama?” I whispered. The tray was heavy in my arms, so heavy they shook, the orange juice spilling onto the toast. I’d burnt it, so I added so much butter I knew she’d laugh.

I waited, knocking the edge of the tray against the door, expecting her to call for me. But there was nothing, and my stomach dropped.

I’d wanted to do something nice, to bring her a smile when all she’d had were frowns. I hadn’t been able to get her out of bed in days … but today felt good. The sun was out, and she loved the sun.

I put the tray down, unable to hold it any longer, and curled my fingers around the handle to open the bedroom door. The room was so dark when it opened with a squeak, and I had to remember that the dark wasn’t so scary. I remembered what Bas had told me, that there were no monsters in the dark. Not real ones, anyway.

“Mama?” I called, my voice wobbling. “Are you okay?”

Dad had left early for work, and Grandfather wasn’t here like he was supposed to be.

Stepping inside, I found the sheets where Dad had slept on the floor, trying to give Mama space while also being close if she needed him. Mama was curled up facing the wall, the blanket pulled all the way up to cover most of her face.

“I made your favourite,” I said softly, placing the tray on the bed behind her before going to the window. I pulled the heavy curtains open, letting the bright sunlight spill across the room. “Look, the sun’s out. Maybe after you eat, I can brush your hair the way you like.”

She didn’t move. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the wall, but she didn’t see me. She never did when she was like this. It was like I’d turned invisible.

Climbing carefully onto the bed beside her, I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Mama?” I whispered.

She finally turned her head, but there was no warmth when she looked at me. There was just … nothing. Those stars I usually saw gone.

“Mama?” I tried again, my voice smaller this time. “I put extra butter on the toast. Just how you like it, but don’t tell Dad because you know he says it’s too much.”

She blinked slowly, like it took all her strength just to do that. Then she turned her face back to the wall without saying a word.

The ache in my chest grew bigger. I hated this Mama. I missed the loud Mama who danced in the kitchen and promised me the world. Even if she scared me sometimes, at least she saw me.

Laying down carefully beside her, I curled up small so I wouldn’t take up too much space. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat right now,” I whispered. “I can just stay with you.”

She didn’t answer.

I stayed there anyway, listening to her breathe, hoping that if I stayed long enough, my Mama would come back.

“She had a condition many people live with,” I continued, my voice almost mechanical, detached. “But she refused help. Refused to take the pills. Refused to speak to professionals. She was convinced she could handle it on her own.”

My childhood was a cyclone of having a loving mother one day, the next a stranger who’d look at me with empty eyes. It was like I went from being her son to her carer overnight. Six years old and I was checking if she was still alive every morning before school, because in her spirals she always threatened to hurt herself.

Dad poured everything into keeping her breathing, whether that was medication, specialised doctors, or therapists, all while I learned how to help her—how to cook her meals and how she liked to wash her hair—just to try and keep her happy. To keep her home instead of disappearing for days, even weeks at a time.

“I tried to stop her from leaving. Begged her even, saying I’d change. That I’d be good,” I said, a dark chuckle escaping. “But she’d decided a life with Dad and me wasn’t what she wanted. So, she left.” She abandoned us when I was ten and never came back—not for a visit, a single phone call, or even a card.

Last I’d tracked her, she’d moved to Scotland with a new husband and the dog she’d promised me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the genuine sorrow surprising.

“Don’t be,” I said, looking down at her. “I’m not.”

I didn’t want to break this fragile, dangerous truce between us. But even lost in the moment, I could sense the party winding down around us, the laughter fading as the parents gathered coats and goodie bags.

Still, I wasn’t ready to let her go.

Sliding my hand lower on her back, I pressed my fingers possessively into the curve of her spine. Aeris swallowed hard, but she didn’t pull away.

That tiny surrender sent a dark, vicious thrill straight through my veins.

The last few kids were being herded towards the door, and Brooke called Aeris’s name from across the room, but I didn’t loosen my grip. Not yet.

“Tonight,” I said quietly, “after you’ve tucked your nephew in and played the perfect aunt … you’re going to tell me everything. Every secret you hold. Every lie you’ve told.”