My mother sat across from me, leaning forward onto the old oak desk in her office.

That's what she called it, her office.

Even though he was just that desk, a stack of all papers, and her chair in a room no bigger

than a walking closet.

I remember there was an insect flying around the overhead light, clanking into the bulb

every so often.

That would draw my attention away from my mother's words, until she would snap her fingers

to draw me back in.

Eventually, she told me to listen up, whereas the consequences would be huge.

The insect was of no fascination to me anymore.

My older brother and I were homeschooled.

She was our teacher, and she took a job seriously.

She was questioning me in regard to my brother's absence from class that morning.

I said I didn't know where he was.

That was the truth, for the most part.

She insisted that because we share a room, I must have known something about his whereabouts.

Again, I said I didn't know where he was.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I noticed my mother's age.

Her face sagged as if the weight of iron bars was bringing a skin down.

Whether it was due to stress or a lack of sleep or any of the reason in the world, she

looked far older than I'd ever noticed before.

After a while of her sitting there, staring at me with those birding eyes, both of her arms

...