{{HI, this is my first post. Not sure what the rules are re:language, but there are some coarse language in this story}}
I am running late. Let me rephrase that: I am running, and I am late.
This is my routine every Friday morning: Wake up at 0600. Teeth brushed, hair-tied and jogging gear on by 0630. Then I have exactly an hour to run to the park and back. Check the mailbox at 0730. Drive Jake to school at 0740.
My routine this morning: Wake up at 0600. Teeth brushed, hair-tied and jogging gear on by 0630. 0710 Try to resist caffeine aroma of a recently opened cafe on the jog back home. 0711 Give in to the caffeine smell and order a cappuccino from said cafe. 0719 Finish said cappuccino.
0720 I am running, late.
I am not a cadet anymore, but I still feel the guilt of being late burn down my throat with the last gulp of my coffee. If I don't run faster Jake is going to be late. He does not need to be in any more trouble with school than he already is. Shit, his grades. I was supposed to have a talk with him about that. I'll do that on the car ride to school. No - I don't want to start his day on a negative note like that. Maybe I’ll bring it up at dinner time (1800). If only Peter were here. He was always better at these difficult "family discussions".
0740 I try to catch my breath when I finally reach my driveway. I feel even guiltier when I see him standing there - already waiting for me, which, for Jake, is quite unprecedented.
"I know, I know, we're going to be late...sorry!" I give my 15-year-old son an apologetic smile. My smile fades instantly when I notice the redness in the eyes glaring straight back at me, the tears in his eyes threatening to roll down his cheeks.
"Jake, what's wrong?” I ask cautiously. What hap-"
"-Liar." The way that he makes that accusation – with such a guttural, low-pitched fury – sends shivers down my spine. His gaze is still fixed on me.
“What?” is all I could manage, puzzled by Jake’s bizarre behavior. I notice that his right hand is clutching a piece of paper. It looks like a crumpled letter, and I can only make out the end: “*Sincerely, Abigail Graham. *”
Suddenly, it all makes sense and I am paralyzed with fear. I have prayed that this day would never come. She promised. She fucking promised.
“Jake, I…” I reach for his shoulder, but he takes a huge step back and I try not to cry.
“Fucking liars, the both of you.” I can hear the tremble in his voice as he tosses the crumpled letter at my feet. I can hear him struggling to compose himself. “She’s dying, you know. My real mother.” He knows he is plunging a knife through my heart, and I know that I deserve it.
“Jake. I didn’t think…” I choke back my tears as I try to rephrase. “I am your mother, not her-.”
“-Well, she says she needs me now.” Jake forces a bitter chuckle. “She needs my fucking kidney or she’ll die in two weeks.” Jakes stars sobbing and collapses into my arms.
I should not have stopped for that fucking cappuccino.