I blanch. He’s never used that sort of language with me.

“You tell me”, I say with a tone of authority, “it was behind the dresser in your room.”

I can see a flash of indignation in his pale blue eyes at the thought of me rummaging through his things but the look quickly vanishes.

He’s fidgeting now, clearly aware he’s been caught and this time there will be severe consequences.

I stare at him, praying there is some other explanation rather than the situation that is playing out in my head.

My beautiful boy, who I’ve rared alone since his father passed a decade ago, my rock. The boy who would sing the alphabet to me so sweetly and could never quite get his R’s out smoothly and we’d laugh and I’d tell him to never change.

That boy is across from me now, hood up, staring at the table.

I had known something wasn’t right in the last few weeks but I had never suspected this. How did I not see this coming? Had it been my fault for not paying more attention?

“What are you going to do Mam?”

What a good question. What am I going to do?

I sigh and reach across the table for his hands. He gives them to me quickly.

“Don’t worry,” I say rubbing his hands in mine, they’ve gotten so big. When did this happen?

“Im your mother, I will take care of all of it.”