I don't want to go to work. I absolutely do not. I have been exhausted for the past few days, or months. One day off a week is not enough. There is tidying of the house, laundry, helping Lucky with homework (Listening to him explain how he completed his homework), grocery shopping, drafting lunchbox ideas and then hair washing.
I don't recall the last time I properly washed my hair and deep conditioned it. On my day off, I am always tired, and I usually spend the day lying in bed, and before I know it, the day is over. The weekends and holidays are mandatory for going to work. So, I feel guilty about my inability to spend time with my son on weekends.
I miss Callan. Very much. I miss him every day, and often wish that he was still around. We always did the housework together, until he decided to leave me. An unchecked tear slowly moves out of the corner of my eye and gently pats the pillow.
I glance at the unoccupied pillow next to mine. Somehow, I'm unable to get used to sleeping alone. It has been six years since he left me with our baby, and now Lucky is in school. I did everything I could to ensure that Callan survived, but there is a voice at the back of my mind that feels like I didn't exhaust all options. I should've done more.
Tears sting my eyes, as per usual morning ritual. This is always followed by wondering if I would ever stop crying.
I get out of bed and when I open the door, I find Lucky with his knuckles almost touching the door. This makes me smile every time. He reminds me of my reason to live.
I lift him up and I nuzzle his cheeks. He laughs like he usually does, and his hearty laugh makes my day.
"What do you want for breakfast?" I ask, lifting him up and carrying him on my back.
"I don't know mom. What do I need for my brain to grow?" He shrugs as I put him down.
"I don't know. Let's find out." I go through the sparsely packed pantry.
"You go take a shower, while I prepare breakfast."
He immediately does as instructed.
I make him oats, and I regret not preparing it the night before. Overnight oats usually saves time, and I love that it is nutritious.
"Will this help with my brain?" His eyes widen.
"This will help you very much, trust mom." I try by all means to sound wise.
I add strawberries, bananas and berries. Then, I put them in a smiley face. He beams when I hand the bowl over to him.
"I will check the internet for the benefits later." He takes a spoonful of his oats and fruit.
I laugh at his obvious lack of trust in me.
"You should stop showing off your brain's abilities. You need friends." I comment, taking a spoonful of oats while preparing the lunchbox.
"I have friends. Was I not going to have friends in the third grade?" He asks.
"I need you to have friends your age." I continue to eat.
"That class is boring. They teach everything I know."
"That's my fault," I mumble.
I always long for ways to spend time with him, to take him to a park, to the mall, to play video games and to do anything that children his age do. But, there is never time. My time belongs to my job. On the other hand, he devotes his time to books, because he is alone most of the time.
After breakfast, he shows me his homework.
"I did the homework yesterday after school. I was bored."
Your dad would be proud of how responsible you are, I smile at him.
With me, not so much. I spent all the money that we had, I can't afford a babysitter, and our son is practically raising himself.
"Did you take the keys?" I ask as I put the lunchbox inside the lunch bag.
He smiles. "They are in my bag, where they are supposed to be."
"Ok, your lunch is in the refrigerator. You warm it up when you get home."
He nods.
"Do you remember how to use the microwave?" I tease.
"Mom!" He whines.
I lock the door and we head to the car.
"What is my home lunch?" He looks up at me.
"Macaroni and cheese."
"Thank you mommy."
I smile and kiss his forehead.
When we get to the car, I put him on his seat, and while fastening the seat belt, I gaze at him.
"Are you okay mom?" He asks.
I nod.
I wish that there was some resemblance between him and Callan. He does look a little like me, but there is no trace of Callan.
I don't like how I feel, seeing my son as a relic. Callan would want him to be his own person. Not a reminder of him.
In the car, he asks me to play nursery rhymes on the Cocomelon channel.
We sing along, and I laugh at how much he can be an old soul and a baby at the same time.
I drop him off at school, and we wave at each other.
"You look exhausted," Mia says as soon as she sees me.
"I know," I yawn.
"How was your day off?" She asks.
"Same old. Sleeping the entire day." I put my bag down and make a cup of coffee.
"That sounds like you."
Ever since we have been informed of a new CEO, there had been enormous changes. Such as break room renovations, new espresso machines and fancy seats. We have also been told that our work stations need undergo remodelling as well.
"Mia. Do any of your children look like their father?" I ask, taking a seat.
"Where is this coming from?" She eyes me, taking a sip of her coffee.
"Lucky looks nothing like Callan. I sometimes look at him, and I long for even a tiniest resemblance. Then I feel guilty."
"It's understandable, you loved him." She passes me her lunchbox filled with chocolate chip cookies.
"That's the thing. Lucky is not an antique or a piece of clothing. He is a living soul."
"Don't worry. It's normal. You are still going through grief." She gives me a sympathetic smile.
"It's been years," I sip my coffee.
"You will be okay. Don't force yourself to heal. Give yourself time."
"I suppose. His granny is going to fly here to take him to visit her for the holidays. That judgy woman." I grimace at the thought of meeting her.
Mia is fortunate to have the best mother-in-law. We spend the rest of the time laughing and talking about toxic mother-in-laws. Her cousin's cousin's mother-in-laws, her other friend's mother-in-laws.