Single mother

On the street there’s one of many small houses, the front door close to the street, the front yard a little plot of green, the house has a screen door, a cluttered porch, windows with grey curtains. A pregnant woman with thick eyeglasses and two children and a yellow shopping bag trudges towards the door, needing a drink but having to cook dinner. It’s not the boy with the speech impediment, the one spewing words as if trying on new clothes, singing the words that she can’t understand, it’s the older boy, the quiet boy, the good boy, the one who looks like his father, the one who’s good with numbers and keeps her grounded, the first boy who watches over his brother and patiently teaches him the pronunciation of words, he’s the one keeping her awake in the night.