2019-06-20 - A Son's Love

After the passing of that raging storm, the skies cleared, leaving a beautiful summer day in its wake. It would be smooth sailing from here on out for at least a couple of months and the view from this sixth-floor balcony was amazing.

Mary Thorne rarely left her apartment. If she did, it was only to pick up groceries, though often times, her son would run that errand for her. How thoughtful he was to look after his mother, rescuing her from the trailer park after she was forced to sell their family home due to the debt that her late husband left behind. Now she lived in a luxurious suite with a breathtaking view of the bay and a doting son to care for her.

The sound of water bubbling within a heating coffee pot breaks up the silence of a mostly quiet Sunday morning.

"I told you that I'd get you an espresso machine, but you prefer doing everything the old-fashioned way." Byron says, dressed in his usual business attire, for a Sunday, sans the suit jacket. He sets out a pair of mugs in preparation for the coffee being brewed.

All the while Mary is seated on a stool at the kitchen island, her gaze lowered as she reads the Sunday paper which he had brought for her. Her face was lined with weariness, but she's lived a hard life.

While they wait for the coffee to brew, Byron crosses the room to draw back the curtains and push open those French doors leading out to the balcony, this hint of annoyance in his tone; his eyes stare out at those gorgeous blue skies, "If I hadn't shown up, you'd be wasting away such a beautiful morning. The first we'd had in a long time."

With those doors now open and the curtains drawn, the warm light of the day spreads out through the mostly undecorated room. There were hardly any personal effects to be found within. No decorative items or personal touches of any kind. There was a lack of photographs of the family to be found anywhere. Perhaps, they were all burned away, best to be forgotten.

The only thing of true note is an old Grizzly Den waitress uniform from back in the day. The blouse, apron and skirt ensemble hanging off the back of the unused guest room door as if on display. A reminder of sorts.

Once the coffee is perfectly brewed, Byron fills in those two cups, mixing in some cream and sugar within both. "I was approached with evidence that the Thorne family, in fact, have a connection to the Addington's and that dad's rants weren't just that. Rants." With the cups in hand, he carries them out onto the balcony to set down upon the table there. "It makes me curious what our family was like back in the day, for the Addingtons to accept one of our own into their fold."

Mary had been quiet through most of her son's conversation, her mind, possibly, occupied on the paper before her. But Byron was used to this inattentiveness, the way that his mother would pretend that she was in her own bubble and that nothing more was going on around her. Still, to this mention of the Addington connection, she finally speaks up, "And yet you refuse to buy back our family home. Imagine all of the history that could be found within it." Without looking at him, she adds, "When you first returned, that was what I'd asked you for. If not there, then a cozy cottage by the bay."

By now, Byron is assisting Mary to stand, one hand gripping tightly at her arm to help her up, though she is perfectly fine to walk on her own. The other reaches for the paper and the package of croissants that he'd purchased for their breakfast. This is actually a routine that he does every few Sundays. Visiting his mother.

"You know that if I ever purchased that place, I'd only do so to burn it to the ground." He says to her, guiding Mary along, before helping her get seated in one of the chairs there. "And if I'd bought you a simple cottage," The tone of his words turn cold and sharp and she can feel his breath at her ear, as he stands behind her so close, forcibly lifting her chin to help her enjoy this bright and sunny day, "Then you would never wake up to enjoy all of this."

He remains there for a time, making this point clear, before he takes his own seat, a hand reaching for the paper which he unfolds so that he can begin reading it, "I do so much for you, far more than you've ever done for me. And do you appreciate any of it?" He doesn't care to look up at Mary when he says this, his free hand reaching out to take a sip of coffee. She wasn't going to ruin this perfectly good day for him.