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The day ended, and I returned home, my heart heavy with disappointment and a sense of abandonment that I couldn’t quite articulate. I stood in the doorway of our modest apartment, my mother at the stove, cooking dinner as if nothing had happened.
“Mom,” I began, my voice trembling with emotion, “why didn’t you come to the open day at school today? All my friends’ parents were there.”
She didn’t even look at me, didn’t pause in her cooking. “I had work to do. I couldn’t take the day off just for that.”
I felt a fire of anger rising within me, fueled by years of neglect and disappointment. “You never have time for me, Mom! You’re always working or out with your friends. It’s like I don’t even exist to you.”
She finally turned to me, her face a mask of indifference. “Amber, you know I have to work to provide for us. Don’t be so selfish.”
I couldn’t contain my rage any longer. “Selfish? You’re the one who’s selfish! You’re never there for me when I need you. You never have been.”
In my anger and frustration, I let out words that I had kept locked inside for years. But instead of remorse or understanding, my mother’s eyes hardened, and she raised her hand. The slap stung, both physically and emotionally, as it landed on my cheek.
“You will not speak to me like that,” she hissed, her voice laced with anger.
I touched my cheek, my eyes stinging with tears of pain and injustice. I realized then that there was no solace to be found in this woman who was supposed to be my mother. She was as much a stranger to me as my absent father.
The scars from that day would linger long into my adulthood, a reminder of the wounds that a fractured family can inflict. It was a pivotal moment, one that would shape my determination to create a better life for myself and, eventually, for Alex. The absence of a father’s love and the indifference of a mother’s neglect fueled my drive to give my nephew the love and security that I had always craved but never received.
As I watch the man and his daughter disappear into the plane’s restroom, I’m left with a profound sense of longing, a yearning for something I’ve never truly known. Fatherhood, paternal love—it’s a realm I’ve only glimpsed from the outside, and it’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit, if only in my dreams.
With a heavy heart, I turn my attention back to Alex, who is now fidgeting in his seat. The plane continues its journey, carrying us further away from the city I’ve called home, and closer to a new beginning in Japan. As the miles stretch out beneath us, I can’t help but hope that this adventure will lead us not only to new experiences but also to the answers and healing that my heart has longed for—love, acceptance, and the promise of a brighter future.
Chapter Eight
Derrick
Astheplanecontinuesits cruise through the clouds, I decide to occupy myself with some work on my tablet. I pull out a few documents and start reviewing them. The soft hum of the aircraft’s engines provides a background rhythm to my concentration.
But my focus is soon disrupted by a small, curious hand that reaches across the aisle. I glance down to find the young boy that is seated beside me, reaching for my wristwatch. His fingernails are neatly cut but seem to have been through mischief. His fingers brush against the watch, and I instinctively pull my hand back. I can’t help but feel a sense of irritation bubbling up within me.
The boy, oblivious to my annoyance, doesn’t give up. He leans even further over his seat and makes another attempt to touch my wristwatch. This time, I can’t contain my reaction. I sternly, but calmly tell him to stop, my voice laced with quiet rebuke.
This sudden interaction catches the attention of the woman seated beside the boy, presumably his mother. She turns her head toward us, her eyes reflecting a mix of concern and curiosity. I can tell she’s trying to assess the situation.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft but filled with worry.
I can feel my irritation growing as I explain. “Your son keeps trying to touch my wristwatch. It’s not appropriate.”
The woman’s gaze shifts to the little boy, and she addresses him in a firm but gentle tone. “Alex, honey, you can’t touch other people’s things without permission. Remember what we talked about?”
Alex nods, seemingly understanding the gravity of the situation. His mother’s intervention appears to calm him down, and he withdraws his hand.
Turning her attention back to me, the lady offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about that. He’s just a little boy and can be quite curious.”
I relent a bit, realizing that my reaction might have been too harsh. I nod, not wanting to say any more.
She nods appreciatively. “I’m really sorry. Thank you for your understanding.”
The tension in the air eases, and I return my attention to my work. Despite the initial disruption, I find myself glancing over at the mother and son occasionally. It’s hard not to notice the affectionate way she interacts with him.
Maybe she’s a single mother, I think.
After some moments, I feel pressed. I unbuckle my seatbelt and walk to the toilet to relieve myself. When I walk back, I find the woman and the little boy engaged in chatter, looking at the window.
I return to my seat, expecting to continue reviewing the documents on my tablet, but the woman addresses me. “Excuse me, sir,” she says with a polite tone. “Alex has never been on a plane before, and he’s really excited about seeing the clouds and looking out of the window.” She pauses, and then continues, “Would you mind switching seats with him for a little while so he can enjoy the view? It would mean the world to him.”
Her request catches me off guard. I glance at Alex, who’s sitting there with wide, curious eyes, seemingly fascinated by the idea of gazing out of the window. But I’m not comfortable with this request. I’ve always preferred to keep to myself during flights, engrossed in my work or thoughts.
