He didn’t care. He didn’t care and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. I watched my son as he sat on the couch and stared blankly into the distance, his little sister hugged up next to him as he pretended to comfort her. He pretended to care.

Ever since my mother’s sickness progressed to the point where she struggled to talk, he had barely spoken to her at all. Barely acknowledged her. It’s like her lack of ability to talk had already made her dead to him. He would just stare at her with those blank eyes, hardly responding at all when she did manage to croak something out to him.

“Well.” He said, standing up, “I’m going to the house.” I wanted to ask him why, to ask him to stay with us, but I couldn’t. My heart was too broken. My will too shattered. His cold eyes bored into me. “Do you need anything?”

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t. There was too much. It was too much. I needed my mother back. I needed my son to care. I shook my head. He turned to go and, just as I was about to muster the nerve to speak, I saw him turn and look at the chair my mother had laid in during her last days. It was brief, a split second glance, but in that glance I saw pain welling up like a boiling pot, lid rattling with pressure. Then he was gone, and I was left wondering if I had really seen what I had saw.