He walked in the door, placing his small green backpack quietly on the placemat where one would normally find shoes. It was the only padded place in the house that wouldn't make a thump or bump in the day and disturb her.
He didn't want to do that.
"Mama," he whispered, afraid to say it any louder. Then she might hear. She wouldn't answer. But she might hear.
It was a little ritual he had, pretending like everything was normal at home. He'd call out for his mother, and they'd have an after school snack together. He'd laugh about his day and tell her the silly things his friends had done at lunch.
But in reality that would never happen. He'd come home from school and miss his mother to the point of smothering himself in her old nightshirt as if it were a hug. He'd cry a little, but not really, because crying was weak. After that, he'd grab a piece of bread and pick it apart as if he was going to eat it, or as if it was the best chocolate chip cookie ever. He'd lose his appetite after one bite and place it back in the packaging it came in because that was simpler than the punishment of wasting food the new man had bought out of the kindness of his heart. He'd then recollect over his day as he struggled over his mathematics and language arts, wishing he had someone to call up and ask for a playdate, but he was much too quiet for things like making friends.
After all was said and done, he'd tiptoe to the bathroom and turn on the faucet to the bathtub and scrub himself clean, ususally forgetting about his hair until every other day because it was hard washing your hair by yourself in the bath without someone else to pour clean water over it.
He'd towel himself dry and find his way to bed, whispering a quiet goodnight into the silence. Normally he never got a reply, and if he did, it wasn't from her. Just one of the men that was more caring and felt obligated to acknowledge his existence whilst with his mother.
Those were the good nights.
