It was ten years before I saw my son again. I didn’t even recognize him, he’d grown so much. He said his foster family wouldn’t let him visit me, but I don’t know that I believed him. There was a certain gleam in his eyes that made me uncomfortable. He looked like he knew something. Like he wasn’t afraid of doing terrible things.
He didn’t seem that he missed me, for which I didn’t blame him. I was a terrible mother. Growing up in the foster system must have destroyed him, but there was something more than that. Something I hadn’t realized when he was young.
It was that night that I remembered that first thing about the night my father died in years. My little boy, the light of my life, the only thing that ever mattered to me. The young man who came to see me after ten years not only killed my father, his father, but killed my precious child.
