He shuffled into the kitchen, his hair a mess of dark cowlicks and his eyes fixed on his phone. The resemblance to his father in the fading afternoon light sometimes made my chest ache. He grabbed the plate, the scent of reheated poultry filling the small space.
"Double shift again tonight," I warned, resting the spoon on the side of the pot before I started toward my bedroom. “But I’ll have my phone on me if there’s an emergency. Gabe? Are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
My hands hovered over a row of black work shirts in the closet. Normally, the first one without a visible stain won the lottery. Today, a soft pink v-neck knit I saved for days not spent in the bar found its way into my hands instead.
But one look at myself in the mirror made me want to gag, so I tore it over my head in a huff.
I was halfway into a dark green button-down, wrestling with a stubborn cuff, when a shadow fell across the carpet. Gabe stood in the doorway, plate in hand, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. The phone was gone, his gaze anchored to the green fabric.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice losing its teenage apathy.
"What does it look like? I’m getting ready for work." The nonchalance felt thin. I snatched up a pair of gold hoops from the vanity.
"You have a uniform," he said, chewing a bite of chicken slowly. "The black polo with the bar logo. The one you wear every shift."
"Yeah, well…”
Yeah, well, what, exactly? What was I about to tell him?
“I didn't feel like wearing the same thing I wear every shift." I shoved the earring post through my lobe with a bit too much force. "It’s laundry day. Most of them are damp in the dryer."
"The dryer that just stopped? I heard it." He stepped further into the room, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Thefork scraped against the ceramic plate, a sharp, accusing sound. "And didn’t you say Nanna’s earrings are for special occasions?”
"I’m feeling festive. Sue me." A strange, fluttering tap-dance started against my ribs. I picked up my hairbrush, then put it down, then snatched it up again. The vanity mirror showed Gabe’s reflection right behind mine. Stony, protective, and far too observant. He watched every frantic movement of my hands, his silence making the air feel tight.
"You keep changing," he said, his voice dropping into a low, jagged register. “You haven't done that since the guy from the gym started texting. The one who ended up being married."
I stopped mid-reach for my mascara. "That's enough, Gabe."
"Apparently it’s never enough with you, Mom," Gabe snapped, the raw drama of fifteen years surging through him. Beneath the bite lived a tremor of genuine fear. "You get that look. You check the mirror every five seconds and turn your whole life upside down. Then it's a month of you crying in the kitchen at 2:00 AM because some guy turned out to be a loser."
"There’s no look," I lied, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my neck. "It’s just work. I swear."
"Is it the hockey guy? The one with the Jeep?" He stepped closer, his jaw locked, the half-eaten lunch forgotten on the plate. "I saw how you looked at him. I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. I’ve seen you make stupid decisions because you're lonely. I'm not going to watch you do it again."
The boy in front of me wasn't just being a brat. He was standing guard over the wreckage of past heartbreaks, trying to be the man I hadn't managed to find. The weight of his scrutiny felt heavier than any shift on the schedule.
"Michael’s a regular, Gabe. Nothing more." I gripped my keys, the metal feeling cold and sharp in my palm. "Finish your lunch, then go do your homework."
I pushed past him on my way to the kitchen and pulled containers from the fridge, lining them up on the counter with a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds.
"There’s lasagna for tonight. Don't just eat the middle and leave the edges to dry out. And the kitchen needs to be cleared before I get home. Might as well get that last load out of the dryer too, please."
Gabe didn't answer. He just picked up his plate and wandered into the living room, the heels of his socks sliding over the linoleum. He dropped onto the sofa and reached for his headset, the blue light of the gaming console blinking to life.
"Are you listening to me?" I raised my voice to cut through the cinematic swell of music I knew was pumping at top volume in his ears. "The dryer. If your laundry’s still there when I get back, it’s going to be a wrinkled mess, and I’m not ironing your practice jerseys."
He pulled the headset over his ears, his thumbs already working the joysticks with frantic, practiced twitches. "I got it, Mom! Quit babying me and chill out."
"I’ll stop babying you when you stop acting like you need a project manager to navigate a Tuesday," I shot back. The flickering light of the TV threw shadows across his face. "Speaking of projects, I got an email from Mr. Henderson today. Something about an outline for your Science term paper that’s currently missing in action?"
Gabe didn't even flinch. He just leaned into a turn on the screen, his eyes narrowed. "It’s not due for two weeks. I have it under control."
"Under control usually means 'handed in,' Gabe. Not 'living in your head where nobody can see it.'"
"I said I've got it!" He suddenly yanked the headset down around his neck, the game still blaring tinny explosions from the speakers. He stood up, the half-eaten chicken forgotten on the coffee table. "You're always on me about this stuff. Just go to work, okay? I can handle myself."
