“Mom, I’m home.”
She smiled warmly. He smiled back with a warmth that felt somehow deadened by the snow outside. And he felt guilty for that—since Dad had been gone, his mother had somehow absorbed his own warmth. But he was left to his own distance.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Honey, do you…” She coughed, spat blood on the sheets. Isaac bit his lip. “Did you get the medicine?” Her voice was frail, alien. That disturbed him. He dreamt about banishing the unholy demons that did this to her.
“Nah, Mom…they wouldn’t take change.”
She blinked.
Awkwardness was the only word in the English language to describe the sensation that overtook Isaac, but that was something devoid of emotion. Something as cold as a Chicago winter and a doctor’s heart. What overtook Isaac had depth and sorrow, grief and guilt. It had shame. For him and for her. And that hurt.
“Oh…well that’s okay honey. I love you anyways.”
He laughed. Weak, but sincere. “W-we’re gonna make it, ma. Right?”
Her eyes shimmered. That force from outside returned and manifested in her tears, which in her still-youthful confidence refused to flood from her eyes. She could not hold them in, but they stood there stoic and bold, in eerie contrast to her dying form. She was a shell, but she was not hollow. She held love and she rejected the cold that Isaac had carried in.
“Yeah. We’re gonna make it.”
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