AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
A spoon of sugary cereal is halfway to my mouth when my twelve-year-old son asks, “How stupid is this shit?”
I don’t spit out the cereal. That would be wasteful, and I need the sugar to function. Besides, I don’t have a leg to stand on—I have a potty mouth and he knows it. It still makes me wince, his perfectly shaped little mouth saying a “bad” word.
I make a mental note to do some research about the origins of shit so I can properly defend its mundaneness on the off chance my boy decides to lob it at, say, a teacher, or coach, or the school librarian.
He won’t, though. He’s too smart for that.
“Mom? Are you listening?”
“Sure. Yep. Definitely.”
Damien’s mouth twists in annoyance. “You’re such a squirrel.”
I shrug. “Say it again?”
“You know that old place near the lake? The cabins and stuff?”
A Fruit Loop almost goes down the wrong pipe. “Sure. It’s where you did your fourth grade campout.”
And where I spent summers as a kid, back when summer camps were a thing and parents were less concerned about drug use, underaged sex, and doing background checks on chaperones.
I smile wistfully, thinking of the fun Damien’s dad and I had up there as kids, and again as camp counselors our junior and senior years of high school. The memories are saturated with gold—that patina of perfection nostalgia provides. I’ve cultivated that nostalgia, shaped it and thickened it so well it drowns out everything else.
“You’re thinking about Dad.”
“Always.”
Once the word is out, I wish I could bite it back. Lately, Damien has been pushing back when his father comes up—he doesn’t want to hear about Jeremy anymore.
Not gonna lie, it fucking hurts.
I can’t blame him, though, and not just because I’ve had a lot of therapy. He never met his father, has never been on the receiving end of one of his signature hugs, or seen the twinkling eyes that he inherited, or heard Jeremy’s deep, infectious laugh. His father died on the other side of the world before Damien was born.
“—as I was saying, someone bought it.”
“Huh?”
His chair screeches as he shoves it back and stands. “It’s freaking impossible to talk to you.”
Ah, puberty. One of the joys of parenting.
“Damien—”
He’s already gone, too-long legs eating up the floor of our spacious loft in downtown Sun River. His bedroom door slams.
I stare at my soggy cereal until I hear him leave his room and head for the front door.
“See you after practice.”
I half-stand from my chair. “You don’t need a ride to school?”
“I told you last night—Caleb’s mom is picking me up.”
Shame pinches my heart. “Okay! I love you. Have an awesome day at school.”
“Love you too, Mom,” he grumbles.
