Chapter 1
Sophie
I flinched as I heard the all too familiar sound of a door slamming. This particular sound always directly following an aggressive rush of footsteps up the stairs.
My thirteen year old son had once again enquired about the father he believes I’ve been keeping from him. I haven’t, of course. But there’s only so many times you can attempt to convince somebody, especially a teenager, that you’re telling the truth before you just give up entirely.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to bite my tongue around my usually soft spoken, beautiful boy. How do you tell your son that no, you really don’t know who his father is. And no, you probably couldn’t even describe his face in any particular detail. You can’t exactly sit your child down and say, “look Oscar, you were the product of too many hormones, too much alcohol and a broken condom with a man that took a liking to me dressed up as little red riding hood.” If finding out that you were a by-product of a manufacturing failure by Durex didn’t make you miserable, then finding out that you were conceived while your mothers face was pressed against the wall of the third cubicle of the ladies bathroom at the Black Lion’s annual Halloween party might do it. No, I couldn’t very well tell him the truth.
But his acceptance of my explanation previous to the last few months just wasn’t cutting it anymore, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. Oscar had always understood that he was a surprise. A very happy surprise, once I’d gotten over the shock and mild horror of having to complete my final year of my accounting and finance degree heavily pregnant.
I had always been truthful about the fact that I didn’t know who his father was. Maybe now he understands the implications of that. His mother had a filthy one night stand -and filthy it was- with a complete stranger. She didn’t get a name, first or last, or a contact number. All it took was a couple of shots and an orgasm caused by his fingers under my dress on the crowded dance floor to convince me that it would be a wonderful idea to lead him to the toilets and have my way with him.
I leaned back on the sofa and let out a heavy sigh. I didn’t regret my actions that night, because they brought me my son and I would be completely lost without him. I do wish I’d had the sense to get a name. Or a number. If I’d spent the night with him like he’d asked me to, I’d have been able to get some solid information. But it was too late for all of that now.
My son was in pain. He was confused, hormonal and running a slight fever.
I heaved myself off of the sofa, which was getting harder and harder due to the sizable indentation that now existed in my usual spot. Picking up my mug, a souvenir from my days at university, chipped around the handle and base from years of use, I walked to the kitchen and began the task of washing up. I let out a long sigh as my head dropped forward, watching the sink fill and the bubbles begin to build.
As I went through the motions of scrubbing the pan I’d made the lasagne in, I tried to make sense of the last three months. I knew that being a single parent would be difficult, I was as prepared for it as one can be. I’d surrounded myself with a support system of friends and family and always put my son first. But truthfully, it hadn’t been what I'd expected. Oscar was a handful as a baby, barely sleeping through the night and I’d functioned in zombie mode for at least three years due to his erratic sleep. The second he’d started walking I thought that he would never stop. Anything that he could find to put into his mouth, he would. He’d be in my sights one second, I’d blink and he would be gone. But as he got older, he found a love for books and computers. If he wasn’t taking apart and rebuilding Ruby, his current computer, he was losing himself in another book he’d found cheap at the local charity shop. He barely raised his voice, he’d never been in fights or arguments at school.
It was like he had a sixth sense for my emotions, he knew when I’d had a hard day and would insist on spending the evening cuddled up with me on the sofa. He’d never raised his voice at me. But this was the fifth time in the space of two weeks, where a question about his father had devolved into him telling me that he hated me. Parenting Oscar had never been difficult, until now.
I’d done my best. I had completed and submitted my dissertation at eight months pregnant and gained the first classification that I had been aiming for. I’d been working in accounting at my brother-in-law’s security firm for eleven years now and I was damn good at my job. I was now head of the department, earning the position after four years of hard graft. I finally owned my own car, my mortgage was manageable and we lived comfortably in our little three bed semi in a small, friendly town. He wanted for nothing and I loved him with all of the fierceness of a mother bear.
We’d made it through so much in the last thirteen years, yet the last few months had nearly brought me to my knees.
I stepped away from the sink and rested my hands on the surface, bracing myself and breathing deeply for a few seconds. Moving away and filling a glass with cold water from the fridge, I make my way upstairs to Oscar’s room. Knocking lightly, I prepared for another round of shouting, but he was blessedly silent.
I pushed down on the handle and pushed the door open slowly, trying not to startle him even though he knew I was coming. Before stepping into the room, I popped my head around the edge of the door and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him curled up in bed shivering violently.
