The themes and events in this short story are not only unrealistic, but distinctly misogynistic. It's important that these themes are framed from a point of view of catharsis and not endorsement. Whether you have similar thoughts or are a victim of them, this story is meant as a safe way to explore this prevalent attitude. This method of coping is not for everybody, so indulge accordingly. Enjoy.
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Chapter 1: A Turning Point
I sigh heavily as I place everything just right on the tray.
A bowl of milk-less cereal, a small carton of milk, three wrapped granola bars, and a glass of no-pulp orange juice.
I thought I had had enough of this two years ago and yet here I am, spending another morning taking care of you, my deadbeat son. I know I'm not helping matters by doting on you nonstop, but it had become a crutch for me as well. I don't want to confront how dependant we had become on each other, but I'm finally hitting a breaking point. I had been telling myself all week that I was going to talk to you, but today feels different.
I pick up the tray and walk to the door that leads to the basement. I hold up the tray with one hand and open the door with the other. It's a wonder that I had never waited tables when I was younger. I begin that now dreaded walk down into your basement apartment. The smell hits sooner and stronger than ever and I wrinkle my nose.
"Connor! Breakfast!" I call out. My voice is soft and kind and loving like it always is despite how much spite I feel for you in this moment. The irony of calling for "breakfast" at 2pm is not lost on me either.
"Aw, Mom! I just got back to sleep!" You whine from your mattress on the floor in your room off to the side of the main open-concept basement space. There are empty chip bags and soda bottles everywhere and the TV is still on, displaying a pause menu on some video game.
I can't believe that I used to smile and roll my eyes when you would do this to me. It's a perfect in for me, however. Now is the time to say something, but I still don't have the guts.
"Sorry, sweetie! I'll leave the tray on the table here!" I call out. Every time I do this I hate myself a little more.
"Just shush!" You grunt out from your room.
It's humiliating.
Sure, it's true that your father sends me enough money every month to more than pay for your lifestyle, but that too has become a crutch. You used to at least feed me lies about trying to get freelance work as a video game music composer, but the dust on your electric keyboard speaks more to me than your silence about it does. I never thought I would resent my own son so much.
I start to go back upstairs, but I stop. No. If I don't do something now, then I never would. I turn around and pick the tray back up.
"You know what, Connor? No. That's enough. I am not your personal servant. You are 27 years old and I am tired of enabling you! The very least you can do is get your own goddamned breakfast!"
You say nothing, but damn it feels good to have let that out. I look at the tray. It would be a waste if you just never came upstairs, but I decide to not be wishy-washy about it. It was already such a small step, therefore I need to follow through.
So I walk back upstairs with the tray. I'm a little flustered that you didn't respond at all, but I suppose that it's better than you yelling back at me.
It was pathetic how thrilling it feels for me, but I decide to just enjoy the moment. I finally stood up for myself! I finally broke the pattern! I place the tray on the kitchen table and grab my phone off the counter where I had left it.
"Your breakfast tray is in the kitchen. Enjoy it because it's the last one I'll make for you."
I stare at the text for two full minutes before I finally send it to you.
I hate having such a bad relationship with you. It's such a mystery to me how this had even happened. You and I used to be so close. Even when your father and I split, it only seemed to make us closer at the time. Maybe it was that closeness when the rest of my life was falling apart that made me blind to the signs. They seemed so obvious now in retrospect however, with seven years to look back on of you treating me with an increasing sense of entitlement and disrespect.
I realize that I don't want to be in the kitchen if you come up for your breakfast tray and so I rush upstairs to my room. I feel like I'm going crazy in this house. It's too big for just two people but something was stopping me from selling it. I know my ex-husband is more than happy to pay a small fraction of his wealth to me every month so that he never has to think of me or you otherwise and that his monthly income was more than I could hope to make in the workforce, so it felt impossible to do anything to upset this best-case financial situation.
I lay down in my king-sized bed to continue this process of going in circles in my head. It was all I seemed to do these days. I would just think about something that stressed me out and then decide to do nothing about it and move on. Although I am self-aware of this process, I still continue it and - as if on cue, - I think about my non-existent love life next.
I tell myself that I haven't been dating for your sake, but you are 27 now and even before things got bad, I don't think you would have really minded. It's clear that I'm scared. It's clear that I don't want to go through what I had gone through with Mark. Plus, at this point it feels like something I simply don't even know how to do. How would I go about meeting somebody now? The whole thing feels so tiring.
I try to listen for your footsteps, but I know that it isn't likely that I would be able to hear them from here. Mark had soundproofed this house like crazy when we first moved in. Everything in my life was a reminder of how bad I was at recognizing red flags. Sometimes I wonder how I even noticed him railing that student of his when I walked in on them that fateful day.
My phone buzzes and I'm embarrassed at how quickly I twist to reach for it.
"Sorry Mom," the text says.
It's a little pathetic that such a bare minimum effort makes me so happy, but I can't deny it. I look at the screen and smile, tears already forming in my eyes. I realize that I need to take this as encouragement to continue to make difficult decisions. Normally I would take any small victory and use it to get me through more trudging weeks of resentment and angry circling thoughts, but I need this to be real progress.
"Thank you, Connor," I reply. "But I mean it. Things are going to be different."
"Yup."
I feel more proud than I had in a long time. It was about time that I started to act like the parent around here. Hell, maybe I would even go and take a yoga class today! I could meet a guy there!
I jump off the bed. There was no reason to pout or continue my frighteningly common habit of feeling sorry for myself on my bed for hours on end. I am a person! I have things I can do!
Although you haven't been in my room in over a decade, I still lock my door out of some unknown subconscious working in my brain. I undress before I go to my closet to see if I can pull out my workout attire. Being naked while I choose a new outfit is an old habit that I had never thought about until Mark had pointed it out. Everything that man did only made me doubt myself.
I know that the neon sports top and pink yoga pants that Lorraine had gifted me five years ago isn't my style and that my previously fit body had done nothing but get out of shape and flabby in that time, but I don't care. I find them and lay them on my bed before I go into my en suite to take a shower.
Chapter 2: Connor's New Project
It's easier than I expect to maintain my new attitude and your surprising cooperation is no small part of that. I still barely see you, but now I only make you dinner and even then I leave everything in the kitchen for you to gather yourself. I do that partly so that I stop waiting on you hand and foot, but also so that I know that you've eaten. My yoga class had gone surprisingly well so now I go three times a week and after two months, I'm starting to feel results even if I don't see them yet. My confidence, while still admittedly low, is higher than it has been in some time.
I had just been thinking about how my next step was to try and spend time together with you again and it's like you read my mind because my phone buzzes in my jean pocket.
"Can I show you something?"
"Now?" I text back immediately.
"Yeah, sure."
I don't care about looking too eager. I head right for the basement. I instinctively hold my breath in anticipation of the smell but it doesn't last long because I gasp at the shocking sight that meets my eyes when I descend low enough to see properly. The basement looks like an entirely different room. There isn't a piece of trash in sight and the entire place has clearly been vacuumed and dusted. Why hadn't I stopped bringing you breakfast years ago?
"Honey, when did you-"
"Oh pretty much right away," you say. You're just standing there in the middle of the room in that unassuming slouch of a standing position that had long been your signature. "Clearly I needed to get my shit together."
"W-well, maybe in not so many words, but... WOW, Connor, I don't know what to say!"
"Don't worry about it," you answer as you walk over to your PC. You shake the mouse to turn on your screen and I'm met with the sight of a complicated-looking program. I am fairly computer literate - at least when compared to my friends - but you always used programs that went way over my head.
"Oh, are you composing again?" I ask. I step closer to try and get a better look at the screen. It didn't look like music notation, but then again, it hadn't back in the days when you used to show me what you had written either.
"Nah, that's not the right word for it. Here, Mom. Take a seat. It's the kinda thing that's easier to just show you."
I don't need to be told twice and I happily plop myself on your big fancy computer chair. Although our relationship had been so strained for so long, I still think that you're so smart and creative and I'm just so excited that you're putting effort into something again.
"Now it's going to look weird for a second, but just watch the screen so that you don't miss it, okay?" You say.
"Okay Connor," I say. I look over the screen as you move to the mouse to start clicking around. You are partially obscuring my view, but I still get a few moments to study it. I soon realize that it's code. I didn't even know that you were learning to code! I start to think that I'm not giving you enough credit but then a few strange terms catch my eye.
"glarePull", "tranceDepth", "subLevel", and "mindDrain" jump out at me. Maybe I realize what's about to happen to me. Maybe I don't want to admit it to myself. Either way I say nothing and in a few seconds, you run your application and the screen goes black and you step away.
"Am I supposed to be seeing something?" I ask.
"Just WAIT, Mom," you say. It is the first time today that you sound like your usual irritable self and shamefully it causes me to be quiet.
Then I start to see it. I have to lean in a little to make sure I'm right, but soon it's unavoidable. Little curved purple lines appear, emanating out from the centre of the screen. It's almost comical how cliché the image looks: Just purple spirals spinning on a black screen.
"Sweetie," I begin with a tired tone in my voice. "I don't see how-"
"-It's okay," you say, cutting me off. "Just look. It will be worth it."
With just the sound of your voice, I can feel that my senses are operating differently. Your voice feels like more than just a voice. In one way it feels farther away, but it also feels like it extends out and interacts with more than just my ears. It's like your words spread across my skin.
"Okay, Connor," I say. It feels good to agree. The spinning lines expand on the screen and I realize that they're not actually purple. The black was just making them look that way. They are pink, bright pink. This makes me happy.
"Do you like the program, Mom?" You ask. I nod softly.
"Yes, Connor," I say.
