The station is small, barely more than a concrete platform with faded signs. I step off the train, pulling my jacket tighter against the chill, and start walking. I can still remember the route to the trailer park like the back of my hand. As I approach the trailer park, it appears smaller than I remember, yet it also looks the same: faded and tired, as if life had bled out of it years ago. The whole place feels abandoned, except for the occasional flicker of movement behind torn curtains, and an old radio crackles with faint music.
Her trailer sits near the back, the same. White, though the color has long since yellowed with age. The wind chimes I made when I was twelve, back when I could hear their soft clinking, still hang by the door, rusted and tangled.
I stop at the edge of the driveway, heart hammering. Every instinct screams at me to turn around. Walk away. Ignore the guilt pressing down on my chest. But I don’t, I climb the three creaky steps and knock.
Nothing.
I wait, shifting on my feet, then knock again, harder this time. Footsteps thud inside. The door swings open, but it’s not my mother standing there. It’s a man, tall and lanky with scruffy beard and bloodshot eyes. His shirt is stained, and there’s a half-finished beer dangling from his hand.
“What do you want?” he grunts, eyeing me like I’m an inconvenience.
I blink, throat tightening. Who the hell is this?
“I’m… here to see Sarah.” I sign the words instinctively, forgetting myself until his expression twists in confusion. I sigh,then take out my phone, type in the message, and point it at his face. He reads it and then looks at me.
“Ah, you must be her son,” he grunts. Then he steps aside, muttering something under his breath, and gestures for me to enter. I hesitate. Every alarm in my body goes off at once, but I force myself to step inside.
The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. It’s cluttered, with clothes and empty bottles scattered across the worn-out couch. The tiny kitchen sink overflows with dirty dishes.
“Lucas?”
Her voice comes from the hallway, thin and tired.
And then she appears.
My mother.
She looks older, so much older than thirty-eight, Frailer. Her blonde hair, once so perfectly always styled in bangs, hangs limp around her face. There are deep lines etched into her skin, and her clothes hang off her frame like they don’t quite fit.
“Baby,” the words escape her like a silent prayer, hand flying to her mouth like she can’t believe I’m real. “Oh my God, you came.”
I step back, instinctively creating space.Baby. She used to call me that when I was little, when the world was calmer and safer before everything fell apart.
I don’t sign anything. I just stare.
Her eyes well with tears as she rushes forward, arms outstretched like she’s going to hug me. I flinch, and she freezes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, dropping her arms. “I just… I didn’t think you’d come. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What do you want?” I mouth the words slowly, and she seems to understand.
Her gaze flickers toward the man, who’s already slouched onto the couch, flipping through channels like this is perfectly normal.
“That’s Eddie,” she says, voice brittle. “My… boyfriend.”
The word hits like a slap.
Boyfriend.
Like the last one. And the one before him. Every single one is a deadbeat, a reminder of how little she learned after everything.
I step back toward the door, shaking my head.
“No! Wait!” she pleads, grabbing my arm. Her grip is weak, bony fingers barely closing around my sleeve. “It’s not like that. He’s not like the others.”
I yank my arm free, breathing ragged.
“Why am I here?”
