After a 12 hour shift, coming home to cook dinner, roll the laundry through from pile, to washer to dryer, to basket. She always stops at the basket. It’s clean is her thought.
Her time for the rest of the evening is spent with her son, he is 8. Her joy, her laughter, her pride. He is the one thing she will have done correct in her life. He will be her magnum opus. His story, his journey she promised herself while he was under her care, would be one of arts and culture, learning and discovering. Tonight they would share a book as they have done since he was 4 years old. Tonight they would read of dragons, and battles fought among the clouds.
She always loved reading with him. The left pages were his and the right pages were hers. Both of them on their stomachs reading together under the lamp that cast stars as it shone. Sometimes he would fall asleep as he read aloud, His blonde haired head resting on his hand propped upon his elbow. Sometimes she would fall asleep his sweet little boys voice reading along, his smooth cadence like a lullaby softly relieving the days stress.
there were evenings where they wouldn’t read but would talk about their days. The struggles he faced at school. He was a different kind of person, and the kids would taunt him with ugly names. She would always tell him that people diminish what they don’t understand, and that someday those kids would understand him, but not until they were much older and grown.
It broke her heart that he could not find one soul to relate to him. But she understood his hurt. She had been an odd child growing up. Fascinated and curious to the world around her. She sought to ease his pain, but she knew that although her words would comfort him, his road would be long before he founds souls, kindred to his own.