Mother

I meet my mother in a local park.

Mother.

The word sounds strange when I look at the stranger sitting beside me. She stares at me. I stare at a little boy learning to bike-ride.

‘How have you been?’ she asks at last.

‘Fine,’ I respond. And it’s true. For eighteen years my life has been good.

I wonder what she feels, meeting me now.

Relief?

Or regret?

I cast a furtive glance at her face, seeking familiarity.  Are our noses similar? Our eyes?

I give up and we hug, stiffly.

‘Let’s meet again, soon,’ she suggests.

‘Sure,’ I lie. 

Written by Alanah Andrews

http://twitter.com/Alanah_Writes

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