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She liked to think that she did everything right. After moving from the Philippines to the United States with her husband, who she loved more than anything else in the world, she started college in criminal justice. She had a beautiful baby boy two years later, and while it was difficult getting legal papers, having a baby, and going through college with a lover who was going to work overseas in Iraq, she pushed through. She got enough money to put aside for her son to be in daycare while she was struggling between a job and college. He grew up, and before she knew it, she had gotten her degree in criminal justice and her baby was entering kindergarten.
Her husband came back from working overseas with a beard so overgrown he’d blend right in with the bushes. She had laughed as she helped him shave so that it was barely stubble. Her son sat in the bathtub pointing and poking fun at his father. Their small apartment was loud that night with laughter.
Her son finally began to know his father, and they soon had another baby on the way. She almost cried when she found out. They had been trying so hard for another baby – another boy or girl so her son wouldn’t be lonely and had someone to play with. When the baby was born, and you were introduced to the world, she shed happy tears as she held you in her arms. She named you after one of your relatives, and vowed to always be there for you.
Her little family moved to a small town, with good people and good neighborhoods. She joined the police force, and no matter what, she always tried to divide her attention between her babies evenly. She made time for her son’s elementary choir concerts, for your school showcases. You proved to be quite the smart one over the years, straight A’s for each class and participating in school competitions. She hardly blinked, and suddenly the days were gone. Suddenly, you were a freshman in high school and your brother was nineteen and graduated. He moved out and got his own place a few hours away in the city. You proved to be smarter than ever, getting outstanding grades and never letting anyone falter you.
Whenever you would get hurt, she would kiss away the pain before laying a small band-aid she got from the Dollar General around the corner onto the cut. Even after all the years that had passed, you would still be her baby. You still slept with stuffed animals at night, and you still came to her when you needed someone to cling to. You were her baby, and that would never change.
That was why, when she got a call in the middle of the night from one of her co-workers, she woke her husband up, shaking and crying that her child–her baby was gone.
She had rushed to the scene despite her co-worker’s insistence not to. The ambulance was there before she was, and she saw the blood on the ground as paramedics loaded you up into a stretcher. She pushed past officers and doctors alike, still in her nightgown. The officers there tried to stop her from reaching you, but she pushed past with the strength of a mother. She peeled back the material hiding your face from view, and sobbed at the sight that greeted her. Your eyes were open, empty and lifeless, and dried blood spilled down your mouth. Warm blood was still slowly oozing out of your neck.
She hunched over your dead body and wailed . She didn’t care that your blood was beginning to stain her night dress. You were dead.
–
Your funeral was only a few weeks later. They couldn’t afford anything fancy, but the town pitched in to give you a proper burial and ceremony. You made a difference on everyone, whether you realized it or not. The kid who used to pick on you, who had since grown into a respectable young man sat a few rows down from the front. That girl who worked at the corner store and you waved at any time you passed was crying in the second row. Your teachers were there, all sporting sullen expressions. The kids who regularly hung out at the arcade, trying to beat your high score on one of the machines were scattered around the aisles. Your best friend sat in the first row, a painfully blank expression on her face.
Traditionally, the family holds the body of the deceased for about a week to honor the passing. She should’ve viewed death as a peaceful thing for you, really– after all, it was how she was raised. Her mother always told her that death was not the end of life, simply a new beginning for souls. However, it was hard to want to honor tradition, so she gave you a traditional American funeral. Your mother had been in charge of everything. She knew your favorite flower, your favorite color. You always joked that you wanted bats to fly out of your casket during your funeral. She couldn’t find any, but she set decorative bats on the mural in the front. Close friends and family made their speeches.
Your best friend tried to keep it light, tried to crack jokes about your friendship, but everyone could see the way she was hurting. The two of you had been close since you were in diapers and basically had your future planned together. No one in town saw one of you without the other close – you were so woven into each other’s lives. By the end of her speech, she had to be escorted back to her seat due to how hard she was crying.
Her son was never the emotional type, but that day, as he gave his speech, she saw him cry for the first time since he was her baby boy who had scraped his knee. He regretted not being there for you as much as he could’ve. He expressed how he should’ve been a better older brother and paid attention to you when you begged for it. He said that, if he had known you would be taken from them so soon, he would go back and redo everything – he would try to rekindle what you used to have before he turned into a stranger.
But none of these words would reach you. Not in any afterlife you were in. She just hoped that you were finally experiencing rest after so many years of trying to catch up to an invisible line of familial expectations.
Her husband never cried for as long as she could remember. In the nineteen years they had been together, she’d never seen as much as a tear from him. Even at the funeral , he had a stoic expression on his face. His voice was steady as he spoke about how much he loved you and how he hated that he lashed out at you when you didn’t deserve it – when the fault lay at his own feet simply due to him not being able to control his emotions. She couldn’t deny that she had been angry seeing that. You were his child , and yet he couldn’t even shed a single tear for you. She hated to admit that she had yelled at her husband after the service – had called him heartless and cruel for not even trying to pretend to care about you at your own funeral.
It was impossible to get through that conversation, and yet he still said nothing; he just looked at her with raw emotion in his eyes. She pushed him away, screaming and crying for him to just leave when he attempted to console her.
The house was quiet that night.
So was the night after that.
And then the next.
Your brother had stayed to take care of her a few days after your funeral, but eventually, his job called and he had to pack his bags and go back to his apartment in the city.
Days passed, and she did not utter a word to her husband. How could she? He acted as though you were a stranger—someone he would see on the street who had passed away instead of his child who he had vowed to love and protect with all of his heart. She wanted to say that he had failed, but that would’ve meant that she did too. Perhaps she did.
She got a call the following tuesday. It was another detective–her coworker, Marie. Quietly, she said that she found a lead on her Missing Persons case, and the description of the boy in her office right then matched the one they had on the surveillance cameras that caught your death and the moments before and after that.
(She watched that tape once. Once. And never again. She barely got through the first time. Still, it sat on her nightstand, just above the old VHS player they saved whenever you wanted to watch the family movies. Your brother, before moving back to the city, asked why she kept it there. She said it was one the only things she had left of you, she wouldn’t throw it away.)
She had never run to the station – always took her time because she dreaded clocking in. But there was a first time for everything. Arriving at the office in the matter of minutes, she met Marie by her door. Marie told her to be gentle with her words. He’s skittish Marie said, glancing through the small window that peeked into her room. The little boy was sitting on a cushioned armchair in the corner, picking at the scabs on his knees. It’s a miracle we were able to get him in here.
She entered the room, Marie in tow as she sat down behind her desk. Your mother sat on the second armchair across from the boy. He looked up at her, and his eyes widened and he froze. She almost smiled. You were always told you looked exactly like your mom, and she welled up with pride anytime she heard it.
“You recognize me, don’t you?” he did. She knew he did. You and her had the same eyes. The same nose. The same shaped lips. Many were able to make connections, and she was pretty sure that this little boy was smart.
The little boy nodded his head timidly, and she tried her best to smile. They didn’t come easily these days, and she knew that they were strained when she forced them, but she needed to keep up. “You look like them.” His voice was scratchy, barely above a whisper. He scratched at the scab on his knee more.
“We used to get that a lot.” Her own voice was hoarse from hours of crying – of grieving and begging for her child to come back.
It seemed her smile didn’t help, nor did the words that she thought were reassuring, because the little boy burst into tears. Her smile dropped in her shock and she looked to Marie for help or support. Marie looked as though she expected this, because she just nodded at her.
Quietly, she cleared her throat and – carefully, very carefully – placed her hand on the boy’s back. He cried harder, but leaned into her touch. Painfully, she was reminded of when you would do the same thing when you were his age. He began babbling apologies, saying I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to over and over again. The words only filled her with more dread.
“W-When I saw on the news what ha-happened–” he cut himself off with a sob. Her heart clenched for him. Not even eight hours after your death, it had been broadcasted over the local news. You were a beloved piece of the town. There, everyone knew everyone.
The old ladies from the elderly home you played board games with, the arcade owner who called you punk and never your actual name, the police officers that she’d proudly shown you to and you offered homemade cookies to. All of them knew, and it was as though a hush was placed over the town for hours .
“I-I’m so sorry – I never meant to,” he cried. After a moment, she began to rub circles into his back and let him cry.
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what she could say – that sorry wouldn’t bring back her child? No, those words weren’t for this boy. They were reserved for the man who actually killed you – who probably didn’t reserve any remorse for what he’d done.
She sighed and looked at the ground with a sad gaze. “They always wanted to follow in my footsteps–to help people who needed it. It was what made them so… them .” She was aware of their eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. If she did, she would’ve started sobbing far sooner than she wanted to. “I always told them that my job came with risks – there was a possibility that everytime I left home, I wouldn’t come back. I remember–they looked at me like a kicked puppy and asked but… you still help people? – and I said, of course I do. If I don’t, who else will? ” She was already getting choked up, so she took a deep breath before continuing.
“I guess I just didn’t realize that, from that moment on, they applied that principle to themselves,” she said, looking at the boy. He was still crying, but there was a small light in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Maybe unshed tears, maybe a realization. “I’m so, so proud of them for doing so noble. I miss them–more than anything–but it isn’t your fault for what happened.” The little boy didn’t say anything, just blinked up at her with big eyes.
Marie took the pregnant pause between them to step in. “And, Marco, if we find the man responsible, nothing like this will happen again. Whatever you’re scared of – whatever happens, we’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you safe.”
The boy– Marco– stared between her and Marie for a moment. FInally, he nodded.
“Okay.”
–
Andrew Fellowes. A suspect in several human trafficking cases and five murder cases. Legally classified serial killer.
Your mother worked long, hard hours to make sure she would see him behind bars, and, eventually, they paid off. Her son and husband sat in the front row, watching the case with hard expressions. It was only when the judge declared the case over that her son broke down, and her husband was there to comfort him.
There was a satisfaction that dug itself into her heart as she watched the court officers handcuff Andrew as the jury convicted him as guilty. There was a different satisfaction when she saw the look on his face as she whispered the last words he’d hear as a free man.
“ You killed my kid, and I will make sure that the rest of your miserable life is a living hell .”
He was transferred to the prison in the city, and while the jury didn’t issue the death penalty – only life in prison without parole – Andrew was going to wish they did. News travelled fast, and even some of the worst people in prison didn’t tolerate a child murderer and trafficker.
Marco was put into foster care, and thankfully, he found a home rather quickly with one of her neighbors. The Clarkes were a lovely bunch with two cats and a dog. The boy liked to wave at her before she would leave for work, and she would wave back. Her heart was still heavy, but lighter than it had been weeks ago.
It was a Tuesday night when she got a text from her son. She was sitting in your room that had mainly gone untouched. She couldn’t find it in herself to move anything before that night, when she picked up one of your stuffed animals and held it close to her chest because it still smelled like you.
The text her son sent was a link to an article:
Andrew Fellowes, convicted murderer and member in large human trafficking scheme, found dead in Klein City Prison.
After only six months in prison, Andrew Fellowes was found dead in Klein City Prison, his body stripped with a shiv protruding from the side of his neck. The scene was discovered on Tuesday night, 9:27, by a night guard surveying the cameras. When questioning inmates, many report that Fellowes was largely targeted by others. One inmate, Mei Keyes, said, “He had it coming. Prison tolerates a lot of people, but child abusers ain’t one of ‘em.”
She stopped reading there. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been happy about the death of another person, but how could she not be? This man had trafficked children and murdered almost half a dozen others. A weird feeling washed over her. Closure.
–
Almost a year had passed since your death. A day was circled on the calendar: Your birthday.
Her husband was nowhere to be found – probably hiding at work like he tended to do when things get rocky in their relationship. The most talking they had done in the past few months was small conversation at the dinner table, and even then they were clipped.
She was still mad at him. It was hard to not be mad. She called in sick at work and just… sat in your room for hours on end. She was holding your favorite shirt to her nose as she leaned against your bed. She couldn’t cry anymore – just sit and wish things were different. That you were still there and not six feet underground in the graveyard a few streets away from the house.
But things weren’t different. Nothing would change.
You would’ve been fifteen today , she thought as she put down the shirt and picked up a stuffed animal. It was the one you named after her: A big, fluffy raccoon.
Her peace was interrupted by a knock on the door, and considering only two people lived in the house, she immediately knew who. She didn’t answer, but the door opened anyway. Her husband walked in, holding a small cake on a plate with a single candle sticking out of the top.
She didn’t address him, even when he sat down on the floor next to her and placed the cake in front of the both of them. It was red velvet with whipped cream frosting. Your favorite. The realization made her stern gaze soften.
A few minutes of deafening silence filled the room, and her husband finally spoke. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, and you’ve got good reason not to,” he said. Regret was clear in his voice, but she still didn’t answer. Seeing this, he sighed and continued. “I… I didn’t love them like I should’ve. I know that now. No amount of reasoning excuses how I treated them. But… They were my kid. I loved them. I still do.” This was the most talking they’d done in weeks.
She looked at him, only to find him already looking at her. And then, she saw him do something he’d never done. Cry.
His tears were silent falling down his face, and he raised his hand to cup the back of her neck when she didn’t move away. “I’m sorry,” he said – and she was pretty sure that was the first time she heard those words come out of his mouth genuinely. “I’m sorry for-for being the worst father I could’ve been; for being the worst husband. You deserve far more than me. I love you, and I’m sorry for not showing it.”
For the first time in a long time, she let herself cry in her husband's arms. The thumb on the back of her neck rubbed circles into her circles, and she leaned into his warm embrace. It was as though the final piece of a broken plate had been put together with the rest. There were still cracks that needed to be filled, and they would be with something new.
It didn’t change what happened, and there would always be a hole in her heart until the day she passed, but now–now she could try accepting it.
When they calmed down, she laid her head against her husband’s shoulder as he picked up the plate of cake. He handed her the lighter he’d come in with, and they lit the candle. A soft song of Happy Birthday filled the room. You were always so embarrassed when they sang it too loud.
When the song ended, they held the plate for a few moments longer. You weren’t there to blow it out. “Maybe we should do it.” Her husband suggested, and she almost nodded before a gust of wind blew from the open window, blowing out the candle.
They sat in stunned silence for a few seconds. “I think they got it,” she chuckled, the laugh sounding a bit wet. Her husband shared the sentiment and they put the plate back down.
“I got some flowers to put by their grave, if you’re up to it,” he said, turning to her.
Her hand found his and she squeezed the raccoon in her arms tighter. A fresh tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away and sniffled. “That sounds like a good idea.”
–
Somewhere, a few universes away, you were in your bed scrolling through pictures on your phone. MK and Mei had tired you out with ice cream, the arcade, and shopping sprees for your birthday. After getting home and into the safe arms of Pigsy and Tang, they sent the two home and led you to bed, both giving you soft kisses on the head and whispering happy birthday, kiddo before going to bed themselves.
While scrolling, you stumbled upon one from a few years ago and the breath left you. The timestamp read that it was about two years ago; your thirteenth birthday. You and your mom sat at a table in a Denny’s, holding Oreo milkshakes.
You hated that her face looked warped to you. Like it was a stranger instead of your mother. But you remembered that day. You had a dentist appointment and couldn’t eat solid foods, so your mom took you to Denny’s because, according to you, they had the best milkshakes. Later that night, the two of you traveled to the city and went bowling.
Your thumb ran over the image of her face, and a tear ran down your face and onto the pillow. “I miss you. I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry. The last words you’d whispered before dying. The last words you gave your mom. Maybe you should’ve said thank you instead. Thank you for being my mom. Thank you for caring about me. But it wouldn’t mean anything. They wouldn’t reach her – not where she was.
You fell asleep that night and dreamed of birthdays and restaurant dates. Of the feeling of love suffocating you.