Toast
I knew something was wrong before I understood what it was.
It wasn’t because Mum looked different. She didn’t. She still had the same freckles across her nose and the same little scar on her thumb.
She still wore Dad’s old blue jumper when she was cold, even though it was too big for her now, she never seemed to eat anymore.
When she looked at me, she looked like she didn't know me.
At breakfast, she made me my toast and put the plate down in front of me.
Mum always cut the crusts off. Sandwiches, too. She didn’t like them, so she never gave them to me either. I never really knew if I liked them or not. It just wasn’t something I ever got.
I stared at the plate. Today, my toast had crusts.
She watched me.
Smiling.
Well... not quite.
Smiles are supposed to spread across a face. They’re supposed to make people look happy and warm.
Hers didn’t seem to know that.
It stopped at her lips.
It was like she’d practised smiling without ever having a reason to.
She continued to watch me,
Not waiting for me to smile back. Or even wanting me to,
Just waiting to see what I’d do, it seemed.
“You aren’t eating,” she said.
I picked at the toast. The crusts felt wrong in my fingers. They didn’t belong there at all.
After that, I started noticing other things.
Her right thumb tapped against her middle finger.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Always three times. It always seemed to be when she was thinking.
Once, I woke up in the night and saw her standing in my doorway.
Like, she was in a trance, I'd have thought she was asleep, but her eyes were wide open.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
That funny little tick.
Thinking.
At dinner, I asked, “Mum, do you remember when I fell in the pond?”
“I do.”
“What happened?”
“You got wet.”
That was all she said.
The real mum would have laughed. She would have said about the ducks chasing me because I’d spooked them, how I’d fallen backwards trying to get away, how she said it was the best swim she never planned.
This mum's face was blank.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
That night, Dad came home late.
I waited until Mum went upstairs.
“Dad…”
He paused with his coat half off.
“Has Mum been… different?”
His eyes flicked toward the ceiling.
Just for a second.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“She’s not… like before.”
He let out a short breath. It was shaky.
“Your mum’s your mum.”
“But—”
“Don’t upset her.”
He said it quickly, quietly whilst looking at me pointedly.
That scared me more than Mum did.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Eventually, I heard footsteps outside my room.
Slow.
Measured.
The door was already open.
She stood there in the dark, watching me.
That “Smile” plastered on her face.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.