A Hero's Tears

You're Not My Mummy

Luke steeled his nerves and knocked on the door of his childhood home; the home of his mother. In mere seconds it flew open to the form of May Castellan, quite older than from how Luke remembered her.

"L-Like I said, Mom," Luke said in a shaky, broken voice. "Home for lunch."

In an instant, Luke was pulled in a tight, loving teary hug, her hands covered in peanut butter and jelly, and Luke could smell the cookies from the porch. He hugs back, silent tears streaming down his scarred face.

"How does pb & j sound?" May asks.

"Will there be cookies?" Luke replies, laughing nervously, his voice still cracked and shaky.

May pulls him tighter, but Luke didn't mind. "Of course there will be." Tears were now running down her face, as well, and she led Luke into the house.

Once he walks in, he sees all the boxes of pb & j and cookies, and starts violently crying and apologizing, but May stops him.

"Shh. It's okay. You kept your promise. You're back for lunch," she said with a slight smile, tears still running from her eyes.

Luke rushes to embrace his mother, crying, and she gladly returns the hug.

He looked up at his mother, tears streaming down both their faces.

"Mom, I-"

Luke woke with a start, his cheeks wet with tears. He wiped them off, before standing up, and looking towards the east. He had escaped from the Underworld when Death was chained up, and came out on the West Coast. He had instantly started his journey east, not to Camp, not to Olympus, but to Connecticut, his old home back when he lived with his mother. He had wanted to make amends, or at least see her again.

He picked up his bag, which he had used as a sort of makeshift pillow, and counted the money he had. Seventeen dollars and thirteen cents, and three drachmas. He sighed and threw his bag over his shoulder, before starting towards the direction of the house.

After a couple hours, he arrived at the doorstep, shaky, nervous, and hopeful.

He cautiously raised his fist, and knocked thrice on the door... No reply. Not even a rustle. He knocked again. This time, he heard a door shut and footsteps, then the front door swung open. Instead of his mother, however, a large, doughy, greasy man was standing there in a dark blue bathrobe, his small, beady eyes glaring at the boy.

"Well, boy, what do you want?! I haven't got all day!" the man growled at Luke.

Luke gaped for a second, before finding his words. "I-I'm looking for May Castellan," he nervously replied.

"Well, you're about a year too late. She's dead. Some kind of infection in her lungs due to molded cookies and sandwiches. The crazy witch had boxes full of 'em," the man said with no emotion.

Luke's temper raged, then his spirit broke. His mother had died believing he would be back for lunch. That an innocent little seven year old would walk in, hair messy and shoes muddy, and a crooked grin on his face, and plop in a chair, and politely ask for some cookies and sandwiches. She had died surrounded by molded sandwiches and cookies she had made for him since day one. She had died because of the molded sandwiches and cookies she made for him, based on a lie he had told her when he was a child.

Luke turned from the house, the angry shouting of the potbellied man drowned out by sorrow. He slowly, brokenly shuffled away, going nowhere in particular. He just wanted to go away. Away from the old house of his mother. Away from that grumpy, fat man who had taken up residence in her house.