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The morning sun came through the kitchen window, warming the table.
Micheal sat in his chair. Across from him, his mother sat with a cup of hot tea in her hands.
Usually, Micheal would wake up late, yell about not having clean clothes, grab a piece of bread, and leave the house without looking at her. If she or Terry tried to talk to him, he would roll his eyes and groan. Even though that was rare because of his mom beating, but you could feel he was not so caring at times.
It was during his writing career that he stopped being their good child.
But today was different. Different in a sense that we can't describe; only a mother can.
His mother felt nervous. She held her teacup tightly. She looked at his face, searching for the teenage boy she was used to even though he was 18. But he looked different. His shoulders were relaxed. His eyes looked serious, and older.
"Micheal?" she asked softly.
He looked right into her eyes. "Yes, Mom?"
She put her teacup down on the table. Her hands were shaking just a little bit. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Please tell me, I can help."
Michael looked at her face. Without the anger blinding him, he really saw her for the first time in a long time. He saw the deep, tired lines around her eyes. He saw the gray hairs near her temples. He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest. He knew he was the reason she looked so tired. Maybe because he didn't care more.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to say sorry for all the times he had not cared, all the times he had been cruel, and all the times he made her feel like a bad mother. But he could not explain to her what had changed inside his mind.
Instead, he reached across the small table. He gently placed his hand on top of hers.
His mother took his hand and clasped it hard.
Micheal gave her a small, sad smile.
"Nothing is wrong, Mom," he said softly. His thumb lightly rubbed the back of her hand. "Nothing is wrong at all."
"Are you sure?" she whispered. Her voice was shaking now. "You're wrote such a terrifying and terrible thing, and you are telling you are fine? You're scaring me a little, sweetheart."
"I'm sure," Michael replied in a steady, calm voice. "I'm just going to go to my room and have some time to think about...stuff, if that's okay with you?"
Janet was afraid that she would lose her son. Someone who could write something so horrifying would not be mentally stable. She knows her boy; he is very sensitive about these things. She wishes he could tell her what's wrong and not suffer alone.
"Fine...can I read the novel?" she asked.
"Of course. I will send you the link," said Michael.
"No need. I have Terry's email logged in on my laptop," she said. "Go to your room and get some sleep; we will talk when your dad comes back."
"Mhm," Michael affirmed.