About five minutes after entering the two-bedroom apartment where Tyrone has lived with his mom for the past five years, he knew something was wrong.  How did he know that?  Well, it was his first day back to school after the summer break, and the beginning of his last year of secondary school, and his mom was not firing questions at him about his day at school.

Several years ago, the first day of school was tough for him, but by the time the school day was over, the day’s sadness was forgotten, and he was looking forward to facing another school day the following day. 

On that day and all other first days, her questions were one after another, and he loved her and always looked forward to her questions. Nevertheless, he would not tell her so.  You see, her questions helped him to focus, put his day into perspective, and set him up, in a good way, for the new school year.

Who knows, maybe this would not have been their tradition if his first day at kindergarten had not ended the way it did.  No, no, school was overall great; it was what happened after he returned home that was in view here.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Tyrone asked, walking into the carpeted living room with his white socks on. He wore a red hoodie and black long pants.

When he arrived home and announced his presence, she replied, calling him into the living room.  The living room held a twenty-four-inch black and silver LCD TV on a large black entertainment set placed in the far corner. An oval glass-top black coffee table was in the centre of the room with a glass vase of red and white artificial flowers in it and a white tablecloth dolly under it.

His mom’s voice sounded strange, but he thought she had just awakened from a nap, although she was not a napper.  Still, she has been working many overtime hours recently, and at home, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

She gazed at him from the long floral chair and patted the space beside her.  His mom wore grey and white slacks and a matching sweater with a light-blue satin headtie on her head.

She sniffled as he sat facing her.

“I just received a call from a friend of your dad,” she said.

“Oh, wow, what did he want?”

“It was a she, and she wanted us to know,” she began, “she wanted us to know that your dad is gone.”

“Typical,” Tyrone spitted, “after all these years he still has the same M.O. When things are not going the way he wants them to, he leaves, no matter who it hurts.”

“No,” his mom said, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Tyrone said, “you’ve never said anything bad about my dad to my face, but I’m seventeen now, and I can see and figure out things for myself. He walked out on us on my first day of kindergarten, and now he has walked out on his friend.”

“Forgive him, son, forgive him,” his mom said, as tears rolled out her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, frowning.

His mom reached into her sweater’s pocket and pulled out a white tissue.

“Well, he has never asked me for forgiveness in all of those Christmas and birthday cards he sent throughout the years, so, since he doesn’t need it, I don’t have to give it, and you don’t need to cry for him.”

“Last night,” she continued, reaching for and holding his hand, “your dad went to a supermarket opposite his apartment to grab a few things. On his way back, as he crossed the road, a pickup truck with a drunk driver hit him, and he died, son.”

A few seconds passed before Tyrone said, “What? Oh!”

“I’m so sorry, son,” his mother said, still crying and holding his hand.

“But,” Tyrone’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat, “but how could…”

Tyrone’s voice broke again, and as tears poured out, he rested his head on his mother’s shoulder as they wept.

Sometime later, with their faces washed, diced pineapples, mangoes, and apples in cereal bowls were before them at the five-piece pine dining table in the kitchen.

With a metal fork in his hand, Tyrone ate some fruits before saying, “But I don’t know why I cried so much, Mom. I didn’t even know him. He didn’t really give me the chance to know him.” His voice broke, so he stopped talking and gently bit down on the pineapple in his mouth, willing himself not to cry again.

“Of course, you would cry; he was your dad,” Mom said, “and even though he left us, you loved him, and maybe you hoped that one of these days, you two would somehow build a relationship.”

Tyrone nodded.

“There is so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to ask him why.  Why did he leave, and even if he did not love us anymore, why didn’t he just say he was leaving?”

“Your dad always loved you, Ty, and since he left eleven years ago, there has not been one year that he did not send you a birthday and Christmas card and money,” his mom said. 

“I would have chosen him over cards and money any day,” he replied with his mouth full.

“I know, son, but your dad was struggling with a lot from his own childhood, and for at least six years, he was here for both of us. He tried Ty.”

“But that’s not right, Mom; you can’t just have children and abandon them,” Tyrone replied, wiping away the unwanted tears with his hoodie.

“I know, son.”

“Why couldn’t he get some professional help or something?” Tyrone asked, sniffling.

“He did,” she replied, “but he said it was not for him. It was not helping him.”

“Then what about church? Did he even try talking to someone from there? I go, and it helps me.”

His mother was quiet for several seconds as she ate.

“His father,” she said, “your Granddad, was the pastor of the only church in his village, and the first chance your dad got, he left home. He got away from his dad, and he kept running from the church.”

Tyrone stared at his mother. “I never knew this.”

“Yes, I know. Your dad is—was—a private man.”

Tyrone shook his head. “But I was his son; why couldn’t he be the dad to me that he wanted his dad to be to him?”

“I don’t know, son.”

“Now he’s gone and the relationship I wanted with him will never happen, but I’m not going to let that happen to me. If I ever get children, I will be there for them.”

His mother nodded, and the left corner of her lips lifted briefly in a smile.

“But what do we do now, Mom? Where was he living, and how did his friend know to call us?”

Before his mother could reply, he added, “I hope we don’t have to pay for his funeral because we don’t have any money, right Mom?”

His mother, reaching out, rubbed his shoulder. “We’ll get through this, son; we’ll get through it.”

The End