The letter from school sits on the kitchen table. Creased at the edges, a stain on the corner. You already know what it says.

So does your mother.

She is standing over it, arms crossed, exhaustion pressing into the lines of her face. She is dressed for nothing. Hair unwashed, slippers on, her old robe tied loosely at the waist.

“Do you have anything to say?”

You pause. Just so she knows you’ve chosen your words.

“I’m surprised you even noticed to be honest.” 

Her fingers curl around the edge of the table. Then let go.

She blinks at you. Her eyes are grey, and worn from time, from years of being washed up and battered against the break, and for a moment you remember they’re grey because of you, and the thought crosses your mind to apologize and say you’re sorry and run over and hug her and start anew…

But you don’t. And neither does she.

Instead she turns from you.

She does not look back.

She reaches for her coffee cup—the one she reheats and never drinks—and walks out of the kitchen.

And just like that, it’s over before it even began.

The threat of a fight lingers, buzzing against your skin, trapped in your throat, escaping through the tips of your trembling fingers.

You want to throw something. Smash something. Rip the letter into pieces and leave them on the floor for her to clean up, but you know it’ll be you sweeping it up later, not her.

You stand in the empty kitchen, chest rising and falling too fast, hands shaking.

And me?

I stand there, too.

Because I have nowhere else to go.

And because I think—

I might be the only one in the world who cares.