The house was quiet and dark when Ellen arrived home. She had grown accustomed to such conditions in the last year, but certain nights still found her with mixed emotions. Jake would be asleep in his room by now, underneath the warm covers that she wasn’t there to tuck in. He rarely stayed up past nine o’clock on a school night.

Ellen bit her lower lip and furrowed her eyebrow. She would never have imagined her son to be as responsible and self-sufficient as he was, and was unsure how she felt about it. As she rolled resignedly into the driveway and killed the engine on a chilly November night, she found herself wishing that Jake was a little more disobedient. Just once she wanted to come home and find him in such a state. He would be sitting up close to the TV and eating chips, the crumbs collecting in the folded creases of his khaki pants. His homework, incomplete, would be on the table beside him. She would cross her arms and lean on her back leg, eyebrows raised, and ask him just what he thought he was doing. Then she would cut off any protest with the three words that no child could stand to hear. Go to bed. The sourness of this discipline would be far outweighed by the confirmation she found in such tangibility.

The spot where Jake’s father parked had been empty for over a year now. She had started working her late shift at One Eyed Jack’s All Night Diner soon after he was gone. Sometimes she could only stop and wonder at how easily and arbitrarily life could change: a random horrible event sprouts up on an otherwise ordinary day, and one year later she is a single mother working full-time, living in a smaller, more affordable home.

She inserted the house key into the front door and turned. The air inside the house was warm and comforting compared to the impending winter frost. She paused in the foyer and listened for Jake, but there was only silence. He was in bed, of course. It was already past nine-thirty, and he had said something about a math quiz tomorrow. Ellen remembered saying she would help him study after work, but it was a busy night and those overtime hours made the monthly bills easier to handle.

But Ellen knew every hour of overtime she worked forged another link in the growing chain that separated her from Jake. She hated herself for not being there for him, to protect and guide. But mostly she hated that her son had to grow up so fast. A kid his age should need his mom, and Jake was faring well without her.

She opened the fridge and saw a Tupperware container sitting on the bottom shelf. A post-it note was attached to the lid: Couldn’t eat it all.

Inside was generous portion of ground-beef in that familiar sloppy-joe sauce that Jake loved. Sorrow began leaking into her thoughts. She was struck by how much she missed those nights: Jake standing next to her, watching the meat simmer and bubble on the stove, talking about his day and asking about hers. Their palaver would last long after the sandwiches were gone, their empty plates warm with conversation.

Her eyes went back to the note. Cursory. Distant. Cold. She threw the container in the microwave.

Ellen knew reheated sloppy-joes were never as good as when made fresh, but she ate the entire portion anyway. Off the stove it tasted rich, hot, and flavorful, but the plate that sat before her looked like a mush of stale sludge. She was starving though, and knew it was better than nothing.

When finished, she decided to make a couple turkey sandwiches for Jake’s lunch the following day. It had been weeks since Ellen made him food. It felt good to do it again—spreading the creamy, yellow mustard on the whole grain bread (Jake only ate grain bread, he thought the “empty calories” of white bread served no purpose), cutting it diagonally, and encapsulating it in plastic wrap. She finished quickly and moved to the fridge to put them away.

Uncertainty crept in, wiping away the smile that had dared to spread across her face. She wasn’t sure if Jake even liked turkey sandwiches any more. She imagined Jake opening his lunch box and grimacing in disgust. His friends—who undoubtedly knew of Jake’s aversion to the meat—would raise their eyebrows and shrug their shoulders, as if to say, Hey, she’s your mom.

Ellen’s hand trembled slightly, her thoughts consumed by the prospect of disappointment.

Her eyes went to the sandwich. Then to the garbage can.

She slammed the fridge shut. Every kid likes turkey sandwiches. It would be fine.

Mindful of the fourth step, which creaked terribly, she crept up the stairs and peeked into Jake’s room. He was lying on top of his comforter, eyes closed. An open math textbook lay on his chest, which rose and fell with the steady breath of slumber. She stared at her only son, who only ate grain bread. Who spent his days alone. Who cooked dinner for his mom.

Despair flooded in, threatening her with a wave of helplessness and fear. Fear that she was failing. Fear of the growing distance that existed between them. She was afraid because she knew that even the strongest chain could eventually break.
Struggling, sinking, Ellen clung to the notion of Jake’s innocence for support. She pulled herself to the surface, cutting the wave off before it to could spill down her cheek.

Ellen pulled back Jake’s comforter and tucked him tightly underneath. She placed the math book next to his backpack and kissed him on the forehead. He stirred lightly and opened his eyes.

“Go back to sleep now. I just wanted to say goodnight,” she said, walking to the door.

“I left my laundry next to the washer like you asked. Tomorrow is my last pair of clean boxers,” he responded.

“I’ll put a load in first thing in the morning, how does that sound?”

Jake smiled and said goodnight. She watched him turn over and close his eyes before leaving the room.

Ellen went to bed that night convinced that she would quit her job the next day. It was not the first time she fell asleep with such certainty. In the warmth and comfort of her bed, with dreams quietly approaching, such an idea felt reasonably divine. The divinity remained when the alarm blared the next morning. It lifted her out of bed and allowed her sip leisurely at her morning coffee and look out at the brightening day.

She would go to work. Jake would go to school. The wave inside her would continue to approach and recede, develop and dissipate. At day’s end they would retire to adjacent rooms, comforted by that which only sleep can assure.