Crossroads

by Laurel Hightower

A groan from Trey. “Ugh, that brings back memories. Here, your face has a smudge on it, let me scrub my saliva into it.” She took a final swipe and tucked the wadded tissue into her pocket. “Mother spit has magical properties, brat, and you know it.” “Cures all ills. I remember.” “Not quite all,” she said in a soft voice, one hand on his cross.

She looked back when she heard the leaves rustling behind her. She smiled. Anyone else would have called it a breeze, but she knew better. She knew her own boy’s voice.

“In the meantime, would you like to come inside? Get warm?” He shook his head. “I can’t, Mom. I don’t even know what warm feels like, anymore.” She could tell he was getting ready to leave her again. She reached up to the full extent of her five-foot-two-inch frame and threw her arms around his neck, drawing him close. “It feels like this, Trey,” she said into his ear when he leaned down to put his head on her shoulder.

She just held him, and she would have stayed like that until she died, if he’d let her.

She was tired, and she was hurting, but as ever, that wasn’t his burden to bear.

Had he truly only died in that exact moment when his mother lost faith?

I gave up a lot for Trey—I still do, but the difference is I don’t resent it. I don’t want anything in return, don’t need his eternal gratitude. It’s a gift to be his mother, and I’ll never finish paying off that debt.”