"F**************K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The curse word tore through the sterile air of the delivery room, a raw, primal explosion of sound that drowned out everything else—the rhythmic, soulless beep of the heart monitor, the quiet, practiced encouragement from the nurse, even the deafening roar of my own panic. It wasn't the sharp, sudden snap of a broken bone from a skating bail, nor was it the dull, throbbing ache of a fistfight back behind the high school bleachers. This was different. This was a monster trying to claw its way out of my body, tearing me apart from the inside out.
The pain hit like a tsunami, starting at my spine and rolling forward in waves of molten lava, crushing every muscle in my abdomen. The world shrank down to a pinprick of harsh fluorescent light and the smell of antiseptic that made me want to retch.
I ground my teeth together so hard I thought the enamel might shatter, my hands gripping the cold metal railing of the hospital bed until my knuckles turned bone-white.
"You're doing great, Elena! Just one more big push! Dig deep!" Nurse Sarah, a woman whose face was so relentlessly, aggressively nice it actually made me want to punch something, tried to squeeze my hand for support.
I yanked my hand back as if she were made of burning coals.
My right hand was already occupied. I was squeezing a cold, battered object so hard the sharp metal edges were cutting into my sweaty palm. A silver Zippo lighter, the finish scratched and worn down to the dull brass underneath.
That motherf*ucker had left it on the kitchen counter the night he bailed. The night the sky fell. I should have thrown it in the trash along with his hoodies and his empty promises. But when the first contraction hit hours ago, my hand had blindly fumbled for it, shoving it into my pocket before I grabbed my go-bag. I told myself a lie, a convenient, tough lie:
"I need something hard to squeeze. Something I can throw at the doctor's head if he annoys me."
It sounded cool. It sounded like me. But deep down, in the part of my brain I refused to listen to, I knew it was a lifeline.
"Don't touch me!" I snarled at Sarah, sweat stinging my eyes, blurring my vision. "And tell that doctor to get this kid out of me right now! Or I swear to god, I will reach down and pull him out myself!"
'I can't do this...'
The thought sliced through my bravado like a scalpel. Amidst the tearing pain, the weakness I had spent nine months burying in a shallow grave suddenly clawed its way to the surface. I glanced at the blue plastic chair beside the bed.
The empty chair. The spot where he should have been.
But he was gone. The "cute guy" I thought was the weirdest person in the city, the one who talked about freedom and rebellion and burning out rather than fading away—he had drained of all color the moment he saw the double pink lines on the drugstore test. He had mumbled something about "not being ready," something about "the baby's future," and then he had vanished into the night like smoke.
I didn't cry. Crying is for the weak female leads in those trashy romcoms. The night he left, I drank my last beer (the final one before a nine-month dry spell), and I tore through the apartment like a hurricane.
I raided his closet. I took every pair of limited-edition Jordan sneakers he treated like religious artifacts. I took his Pokemon Cards collection. I took his custom-built gaming PC with the new graphics card. I photographed them all, listed them on eBay, and sold every single item within two hours.
That cash was sitting in my bank account right now, ready to pay for the hospital bill and a mountain of diapers. "Get lost, you coward," I had smirked as I handed the boxes to the courier. "We'll live just fine off your stupidity."
And my parents? They had turned their backs on day one.
"You made your bed, Elena. Don't bring that shame to our doorstep," my father had said, his voice dripping with ice.
Fine. I would do this alone. I channeled all my terror, all the white-hot rage at being abandoned and the ferocious, instinctive need to protect this tiny thing inside me... then I pushed.
A cry tore through the room. Louder than the machines, louder than my own ragged breathing.
"He's out! It's a boy, Elena," the doctor announced, sounding relieved that I hadn't actually carried out my threat to kick him.
They tossed the screaming, red, wet "burden" onto my chest. He was squirming, furious at the cold air, wailing like he wanted to file a formal complaint against the management. I looked down at the tiny creature.
I reached out a trembling finger and poked his cheek. His skin was impossibly soft.
Then, he opened his eyes.
My heart skipped a beat, then shattered into a million jagged pieces.
Those eyes. They were purple. A deep, mesmerizing violet that seemed to hold a quiet storm within them.
My breath hitched. They were his eyes. The exact same shade. The same shape.
I swallowed the lump of bitterness rising in my throat, forcing my face back into its usual mask of indifference.
"Great." I rasped, my voice wrecked from screaming. "Just look at that face. You look exactly like that motherf*cker… I guess I'm gonna deal with it."
I wiped a stray tear from my cheek and leaned in close to his tiny ear.
"The world out there kinda sucks, boy. It's mean and it's cold. But don't worry, your mom is here now. I'll take them all on."
…
…
…
The first six weeks were a blur of terror, milk, and lukewarm coffee.
The doctors told me to "rest". But when I heard that, I just wanted to laugh in their faces, but I didn't have the energy. How can you "rest" with a tiny, fragile baby who seemed to operate on a completely alien schedule and whose only form of communication was a wail that always f**k my ears?
Our apartment turned into a war zone. Empty pizza boxes were stacked in the corner like a leaning tower of grease. Laundry covered every available surface. The air smelled faintly of fermented yogurt and dirty diapers.
I lived like a zombie. I wore nothing but a pair of men's baggy boxer shorts and an old, moth-eaten Nirvana t-shirt. This shirt... I had accidentally packed it when I raided his closet. It was three sizes too big, hanging off my frame like a tent.
I told myself I kept it because the cotton was vintage-soft and it was practical for sleeping. That was the logical reason. It definitely wasn't because at 3 AM, when the crushing weight of loneliness hit me like a physical blow, I could pull the collar up over my nose and catch a faint, ghost-like trace of cedarwood and cheap tobacco.
3 AM. The siren went off again from the crib.
I groaned, rolling out of bed and kicking an empty water bottle across the room.
"Dammit," I muttered, rubbing eyes that felt like they were full of sand.
I picked Cid up. He was screaming, his face turning a terrifying shade of purple, kicking his legs.
I paced the floor of the tiny living room. The floorboards creaked in protest. I tried everything. I patted his back. I rocked him. I made funny faces. But they are all useless. He continued to scream as if I were torturing him.
Desperation clawed at my throat. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror—hair in a messy bun that looked like a bird's nest, eyes hollow, shirt stained. I looked pathetic.
Without thinking, I started humming. Not a soft, sweet lullaby. I hummed the bass line of an old, heavy rock ballad. The specific song he used to practice on his acoustic guitar out on the balcony, late at night when the smoke from his cigarette curled into the dark sky.
The effect was instant. Cid stopped crying. He blinked, his big purple eyes locking onto mine, captivated by the low, vibrating rumble in my chest.
I froze. The silence in the room was heavy.
"You have terrible taste in music, you know that?" I muttered to the baby, deliberately looking away from his eyes so I wouldn't do something stupid like cry. "Don't get used to it. I'm not a jukebox."
***
Money was a constant, dull ache in the back of my mind. The maxed-out credit card from him was a ticking time bomb. My savings, which I'd guarded so fiercely, were disappearing, draining away with every purchase of diapers, formula and rent for our tiny ass apartment.
When Cid was four months old, my maternity leave pay ran out. The panic was different now. I had to find a job.
I despised "professional" clothes. Pencil skirts that restricted movement? Heels that destroyed your ankles? They were torture devices designed by sadists. But for Cid, I had to play the game.
I sat in a sterile, glass-walled interview room, facing a man in a shiny suit who looked at me with the suspicion one might reserve for a feral cat that had wandered into a fine dining restaurant.
"I see a significant gap in your resume..." he said, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the paper. "And given your age... is your home situation stable? The workload here is demanding."
He didn't say it, but I heard it: Are you a single mom mess? Are you going to call in sick every time the kid sneezes?
I sat with one leg crossed over the other, trying to project an image of cool detachment. Under the table, my right hand was in my pocket, my thumb flicking the lid of the Zippo lighter. Clink. Clink. Open. Shut. The sharp metallic sound was the only thing keeping me from leaping across the table and strangling him.
Then, I felt it. A warm, spreading dampness on the left side of my chest. Shit. My nursing pad had shifted. Milk was leaking, soaking through my bra, staining the crisp white shirt I had spent my last twenty dollars on.
The sensation was gross. Sticky. Humiliating. The smell of raw biology began to rise.
Did I blush? Did I cover it? No. I ground my teeth and swallowed the shame.
"Are you worried I can't handle pressure?" I locked eyes with him, my gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "Let me clarify something for you. I have spent the last four months operating on two hours of sleep, managing a tiny human who screams for demands 24/7, and I am sitting here, articulate and focused. Compared to soothing a teething infant at 3 AM, your Excel spreadsheets are a vacation. I can multitask, I have grit, and I need the money. Are you hiring me, or are we wasting time?"
The man froze, blinking rapidly, clearly taken aback by the sudden aggression. After a long, tense silence, he slowly nodded.
"You've got... attitude. I like that. You're hired."
I walked out of the skyscraper, kicked off the heels the second I hit the pavement, and walked barefoot to the parking lot. I pulled the Zippo out, staring at the scratches on the metal for a long moment before shoving it deep into my pocket. Cid would eat. That was the only thing that mattered.
…
…
…
Life eventually settled into a rhythm. A loud, chaotic, headache-inducing rhythm that I definitely didn't sign up for, but one I had to dance to.
5:30 AM. The alarm screamed. I didn't just press snooze; I slapped the clock across the nightstand.
I showered in three minutes flat with the door open to listen for disasters. I pulled on my faded black jeans and the first clean band t-shirt I could find in the pile.
Breakfast was a tactical operation.
I stood at the kitchen counter, shoving the burnt, rock-hard crust of a piece of toast into my mouth, chewing aggressively, while simultaneously spoon-feeding Cid the soft, warm, perfectly buttered center of the bread.
"Don't get the wrong idea, kid." I muttered around a mouthful of dry crumbs. "I'm eating this part because I like the crunch. I'm not saving the good stuff for you out of love or anything. Don't let it go to your head."
"Maaaaa!" Cid shouted, banging his plastic spoon against the high chair tray like a riot starter.
"Ugh, easy with the volume," I groaned, rolling my eyes theatrically. "You're giving me a migraine before the coffee kicks in. Say it properly. Maaaama."
"MAAAAA!" He screamed louder, spitting a spray of oatmeal directly onto my forearm.
I stared at the glob of goo on my arm. I glared at him. "That's disgusting. And you know that? You are the absolute worst roommate that I ever knew."
He just giggled, flashing a gummy, toothless grin that was entirely too charming.
I tried to keep my face made of stone. I really tried. But the corner of my mouth betrayed me, twitching up into a smirk.
"Fine." I sighed, grabbing a napkin and wiping my arm aggressively to hide my amusement. "At least you've got good lung capacity. You're not a wimp. Maybe I'll teach you how to Death growl when you're older."
…
…
…
Those wobbly steps turned into running before I knew it. The quiet apartment was suddenly filled with the constant patter of little feet and the crash of toys being happily destroyed. He grew so fast it felt like I was watching a time-lapse video.
One day he was clinging to my leg, learning to balance; the next, he was climbing onto the sofa, his eyes bright with mischief and discovery. He was becoming a person, with his own thoughts, his own opinions and his own very loud voice.
Then it came to the "No!" phase. This was also the phase where I decided, in a moment of stupidity, that I should learn to cook.
I stood over the stove, staring at a pot of what was supposed to be vegetable stew. It was gray and smelled like burning rubber.
"Eat up, kid." I said, ladling a glob of the gray sludge into his bowl. "It's organic or whatever."
Cid looked at the bowl. He looked at me. "Yucky."
"It's not yucky, it's nutrients." I snapped, though I knew he was right.
I felt a sudden, sharp pang of inadequacy. That motherf*uckerwas the cook. That was his thing. He could take three wilting vegetables and a piece of old chicken and turn it into a gourmet meal with just a dash of rosemary and that stupid, charming smirk of his. He danced around the kitchen while I just burned things.
I could fight a guy twice my size. I could work a 12-hour shift on no sleep. But I couldn't sauté an onion to save my life.
"Damn it." I muttered, scraping the gray sludge into the trash. "He took all the recipes with him when he left."
I went to the cupboard and pulled out the backup plan.
"Fine. Plan B."
"Eat the green balls of death, boy." I ordered, pointing at his new bowl of microwaved peas.
"NO!" he shouted. "Nu pees!"
"They're fuel. Eat."
He eyed me suspiciously. Then he pointed a chubby finger at my own bowl.
I looked down at my dinner: a steaming cup of cheap instant noodles.
"Mommy it pees." he commanded.
"Mommy is eating... spicy noodles. I can't have them."
"SHAIR!" he chirped, shoving his green bowl toward me.
I let out a short, dry laugh. "You stubborn little hustler. Fine. You win."
I ate a spoonful of his peas. "See? Not poison. Unlike my cooking. Now eat."
He giggled and started eating. I watched him, my chest aching. I couldn't cook like his dad, but I would make sure he never went hungry.
***
Five years old. Cid was a whirlwind of perpetual motion, a tiny, chaotic force of nature.
He didn't just walk, he ran. Everywhere. All the time. He wanted to climb everything—the sofa, the kitchen counter, the big tree in the park.
Part of me feels proud because that's one of the things he gets from me. But on the other hand, I'm quite worried he'll hurt himself. And I was never wrong before… don't talk about that motherf*cker.
One afternoon at the park, he was chasing a butterfly and tripped over a tree root. It was a nasty fall. He skinned his knee bad, blood welling up bright red against his skin.
He opened his mouth, his face scrunching up, preparing to let out a wail that would shatter windows.
The other moms on the bench gasped and started to rush over with wet wipes and cooing voices.
I held up a hand to stop them. I walked over slowly, calmly, and crouched down to his level.
"Hurt?" I asked bluntly.
"Hurts..." he sobbed, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Pain is good. Pain means you're still alive." I said, my voice steady. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bandage and slapped it onto his knee.
"Listen to me, Cid. Men fall down, but then they get up. Don't you dare lie there waiting for someone to come save you. I can't be your bodyguard forever."
He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, looking at the skull on his knee. "You don't love me?"
The question hit me like a punch to the gut. It was unfair. It was cruel how much he looked like his father when he was vulnerable.
I grabbed him, pulling him into a rough, headlock-style hug, burying my face in his sweaty, sun-warmed hair so he wouldn't see the crack in my armor.
"Of course I love you, you idiot." I whispered fiercely into his ear. "But I want you to be a wolf. Not a sheep. The world eats sheep for breakfast. I need you to have teeth."
I needed him to be tough. I needed him to know he could heal. The world could be cruel and unfair—I knew that better than anyone—and I wouldn't always be there to cushion every single fall, as much as my heart wanted to.
…
…
…
"Mom, where's Dad?"
The question I had been dreading finally came on a rainy Tuesday night. We cuddled on the sofa, reading a book about a bear family that I hated but he loved so I had no choice.
I froze. My right hand instinctively dove into my pocket, my fingers curling around the cold, rectangular shape of the Zippo. I traced the familiar dents in the metal.
I looked at Cid. The urge to vomit the truth was overwhelming. I wanted to tell him his father was a coward, a deserter, a man who willing to abandon his own flesh and blood. I wanted to burn the world down with the truth.
But then, a memory flashed—unbidden, unwanted. Him, sitting on the floor of our old empty apartment, smiling that crooked smile as he figured out a difficult chord progression. The way he looked before the fear broke him.
I swallowed the bitterness. It tasted like ash. I wouldn't poison the kid with my hate.
I ruffled his hair, forcing a smirk onto my lips. "Your dad? He... he had some Outer Gods to fight." I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "He got lost in the multiverse. Maybe he's out there saving the world in another dimension. Or maybe he's just an idiot who lost his map."
"Is he coming back?" Cid asked, his voice small.
I gripped the lighter so hard the hinge dug into my skin, threatening to draw blood.
"No." I said.
"But he left me the best part of him. You. So, I guess I can't hate him completely."
I hated myself for saying it. And I hated myself even more because I knew, deep down in the rot of my heart, that it was true.
"So, it's just Mom and Cid?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Yeah." I stood up abruptly, overwhelmed by the need to move and escape the conversation.
"Just us. We don't need a third wheel clogging up the bathroom anyway."
…
…
…
Time had a way of slipping through my fingers. Suddenly, it was a Saturday afternoon and the baby I once held was an eight year old with a stubborn streak to match my own. He occupied his usual spot on the worn carpet, entirely absorbed in building some random things with wooden blocks.
He bit his lip, his small hand trembling slightly as he placed the final, critical red block on top. It wobbled. He held his breath.
Crash.
The tower tumbled down.
His face crumpled instantly. "It fell again!" he wailed, fat tears of frustration welling up.
I was folding laundry in the corner so I tossed a black t-shirt onto the pile and walked over.
"Stop whining," I commanded, my shadow falling over him. "You think the world cares if your tower falls? You think the blocks are gonna feel sorry for you?"
"But I can't do it. I tried and tried and tried, but it keeps falling down. Why won't it stay up?" As he spoke, more tears streamed down his face.
"You have his hands, you know." the words slipped out before I could stop them.
He looked up, confused. "What?"
"Nothing." I shook my head, annoyed at my own slip-up.
'Why did he have to inherit that bastard's weak personality instead of mine? Haa... never thought I'd say something this sappy.'
"Remember what I'm saying now."
He sniffled, rubbing his nose. "…Yes."
"When your tower falls, it doesn't mean it's the end. It just means you have a chance to build it again. Maybe even better this time. Stronger." I handed him a green block.
"Never lose hope, boy. As long as you have hope, you can always try again. Always be brave, because hope will always be there waiting for you."
He looked at the block in his hand, then back at my smile. Slowly, a small, determined nod replaced his tears. "Okay, Mom. Let's try again!"
He wiped his eyes, set his jaw, and started rebuilding. I watched him, a swell of pride mixing with the old ache.
***
That evening, after his favorite spaghetti dinner (Yep, I can cook spaghetti now. I'm a f*cking genius), we packed a small suitcase together. Our first real vacation, just the two of us.
I tossed denim shorts and tank tops into our battered suitcase.
My eyes drifted to the back of the bathroom door. Hanging there was the black flannel shirt. That motherf*cker's shirt.
I paused. My hand reached out, fingers brushing the soft, worn fabric. I could pack it. It gets cold near the ocean at night. It would be practical.
I stood there for a long moment, caught in the trap of memory.
Then I shook my head violently. "No." I muttered to the empty room. "Travel light."
I left the shirt hanging there. But as I turned to leave, I made sure the Zippo was deep in my pocket.
"Yo, Cid." I called out to the living room. "You ready to tear that beach up tomorrow?"
"Yeahhh!" He came running in, bouncing on his toes. "We're gonna see the big waves!"
"That's right. Just you and me, boy." I zipped up the bag with a decisive sound. "Go to sleep, kid. We ride at dawn."
He climbed into his bed, pulling the covers up. "Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. " he mumbled, his eyes already closing.
I stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. A smile—a real, genuine, unguarded smile—broke through my defenses.
"I know." I whispered. "Now shut up and sleep."
I stood in the hallway, listening to the rain drumming against the roof. My hand remained in my pocket, thumb tracing the lighter's smooth, cold metal.
I wished things were different, but I knew they weren't. In the end, I accepted that this—just this—was enough.