The boy’s name was Sam. A simple name for a simple boy, with friends, an easy life, good grades, many hobbies, and loving parents. His father was stern but kind, clever, funny. His mother was beautiful, loving, generous, and the little boy loved her more than anyone could imagine. His life was perfect. For six years and four days.
But one memorable day, the six-year-old Sam Fern arrived home from school to find his parents waiting in the hall, smiling. He knew, even then, that something was wrong.
“How was school, sweetheart?” asked his mother, cheerfully, with a false smile.
“Uh… fine, Mum. What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“What’s wrong? Why are you… standing here?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong, Sam.” His mother assured him.
“Okay…” replied Sam, doubtfully.
“Quite the opposite, in fact!” She continued.
“What is it?” demanded the boy, anxiously.
“I’m pregnant, darling.” Her smile widened, before quickly becoming a frown as his head started spinning and the ground rushed up to meet him. That was the moment his life started to spiral out of control.
***
Nine months. Such a long space of time when one is happy, loved, with nothing to worry about. But when one’s heart is filled with apprehension and fear, when one is dreading the end of those nine short months, they pass all too quickly.
And all too soon, the baby was born.
Sam’s grandparents came to babysit while his mother and father were at the hospital. All that night, Sam could not shake off a feeling of dread. He spent the night anxiously pacing his room.
Late in the night, he thought he heard the phone ring. The rings came to a sudden stop, and he could hear a muffled voice as his grandmother answered the telephone. Later; a quiet conversation between his grandparents, and stifled sobs. He knew with a growing certainty that the baby had not survived. But would that really be such a bad thing?
The next morning stuck in the boy’s memory forever. Sam remembered his father entering the room where he sat with his grandparents. The elderly couple’s eyes were red from crying, but they had refused to answer Sam’s questions. They had explained that it was for his father to tell him. And as his father walked into the room, Sam had readied himself to hear of the baby’s death. But something was wrong.
His father had approached, and Sam had realised with a shock that he held a small bundle in his arms. A tiny body, swathed in blankets. The baby was alive.
He remembered his father sitting next to him and grasping his hand, carefully explaining that his mother had gone to a better place, and that Sam would see her again one day.
“When?” he had asked, in a small voice.
“Too soon.” His father had replied, sadly.
In a daze, the small boy had stumbled upstairs, thrown himself onto the bed, and cried until there were no tears left to fall. He wished he could see her one last time, give her one last hug, and tell her he loved her one last time, because somehow all the times he had told her were not enough.
***
As Sam grew steadily older, he never forgave his sister. He resented her for being born, being alive in the place of his mother. But as he matured, the sharp pain of losing his mother dimmed to a dull ache, her face gradually faded from his memory, and he resolved to put up with the small girl.
Whenever she was around, he would plaster a smile onto his face, ruffle her hair… but never tell her he loved her. He got used to having her around, got used to pushing his feelings down, got used to feigning love for the girl. After a few years, he had almost convinced himself. But he never convinced Lily herself.
