Fifteen

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15. AFTER

I know something is wrong when I walk down for breakfast the next morning and mum doesn't attempt to make small talk with me. She hasn't got any make-up on – and my mother always makes sure she's got at least a bit of lipstick on before breakfast—and her hands tremble as she places a piece of toast in front of me.

The toast is half-burnt and the butter she's slathered on it looks like it's been done carelessly. My mother is a chef. She would never have let this go unnoticed.

"Mum," I clear my throat awkwardly. The tables have turned after weeks of interrogation. "Are you...alright?"

"Hmm?" She nearly drops the mug of coffee she's holding and when our eyes finally meet I notice her greyish-green ones are puffy. Mum's been crying. For some reason, my stomach plummets and the first thing that pops into my mind is divorce.

"Are you alright?" I repeat, careful to make sure my voice isn't shaky. Because any emotion on my part will only give my mum an excuse to change the subject, turn it around on me. She's always been good at that, honing in on someone else's problems, trying to make everyone else feel better while desperately trying to hide her own feelings.

Mum laughs nervously and I already know that there's a lie ready to bounce off of her tongue.

"I'm fine, love," she responds and she absent-mindedly dabs at her eyes. "It's been a busy week is all. Haven't had much sleep."

"Right." I raise an eyebrow up at her. "Where's dad?"

Weirdly enough, mum doesn't bat an eye-lid at that. "Had an early shift," is her smooth response. "See what I mean? Not enough sleep for both me and your dad. You'd think the pay would be better." She chuckles in her Not-That-You-Would-Understand way adults reserve especially for teenagers when they're talking about work.

I can't take this anymore. Enough secrets. They've killed people.

"Are you and dad getting a divorce?" I burst out, feeling myself grow hot. "Because if you are, you might as well just tell me because I'd find out somehow anyway. And if you're getting a divorce because of my whole can't-grieve-properly situation then I'll have you know that—"

"Matt, stop." Mum shakes, pressing her hand to her mouth—she does that when she's about to cry. I get out of my seat and walk over to where she is standing. Awkwardly, I take her hand in mine. This makes it worse and her eyes glaze over with fresh tears.

"Darling," she chokes as her tears quickly spill out of her eyes and slide down her cheeks, flushed with emotion. "Oh Matthew, love, it—this—this isn't about your dad and I."

For some reason, this does not relieve me. I squeeze her hand comfortingly.

"What is it?" I ask though I think I know where this is heading. Somehow, I just know.

"Adam," she whispers and she looks at me with such guilt in her eyes that I step away from her.

"W-What?" I choke out. My throat feels dry.

"N-No not Adam exactly," Mum says shakily. "His mum. Tina. Matt, you must know that I didn't go around to her house to poke around or disturb her or anything like that. It wasn't like that at all. I'd just thought—she's been so alone—I just thought if I made a quick visit—just to see how she was doing—oh, love, I...I never thought that I—" She closes her eyes as more tears spill out.

"Mum, what?" I ask her in a deathly whisper, and I suddenly remember my brief encounter with Tina—her pale face, her angry eyes...I'd completely forgotten to tell Pippa about it.

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