I restructured and severely edited, then sent it a few places.  The boy’s mother is a distracted writer and not an attentive parent.

Mom doesn’t blink, motions me to the edge of the bed and swivels her chair around. She brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “Look kid. You know how it is. It is not that I don’t want you here. It’s that I need you to do your kid thing and let me do what I need to do.”

I don’t back down, I have learned something from her. “Mom, you were home all day. You didn’t even go to work.”

“So? Something struck me this morning and I came home. I called in. I’ve done it before. You were fine. You were at Mrs. Hanson’s.”

“I know. All the time. Maybe I get tired of being there. Maybe I want to be home sometime too.”

She studies for a time. “You think I leave you there too much.”

I shrug.

“Say it.” She insists.

“Yeah.”

“A good Mother wouldn’t do that.” She says, thinking about it.

“I wouldn’t know, Mom.” Even at 10 I am good at twisting the knife but I might as well stick it in a rock.