How’s your son?
I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know where he lives, what he does. I don’t know how he is.
I don’t like to talk about it. Sometimes I literally can’t talk about it. And so I understand his inability to communicate with me. It’s genetic. In a crisis I clam up, dry up, shut up. He’s the same. It’s been a long time though, too long.
I’ve heard that he’s finished uni, that he works for a charity. I’m not sure if it’s paid or not. I’ve been told which suburb he lives in, who he flats with. Reassuring.
And there’s the beginning of a thaw. I have actually seen him four times the last two months. After so many months that’s unbelievable.
He came to my best friend’s funeral and sat two seats from me. He brought her flowers. He wore a suit. Crumpled, but a huge effort. He spoke to me voluntarily and gave me a gift from his chinese grandmother. He came to my mother’s 90th birthday celebrations – both days. And he came to visit his sister after her life changing diagnosis. I am so proud of him. He’s a wonderful young man, finding his way, rediscovering his voice.
How’s my son?
He’s well thank you, he looks great. He’s finished university, works for a charity. Every job he’s had, while studying, has been for a charity. He lives near the uni with an old schoolmate. He’ll be spending christmas with his father, in Asia.
written in response to the daily prompt : plead the fifth ’What question do you hate to be asked? Why?’