you sat at the 2-seater dinner table in your dinky little apartment, a stack of bills on the table, a stained cup of coffee, and still in your scrubs

it was hard, raising a 15 year old son, and trying to keep the lights on with a nurse job. your shifts were long, and your son, Dylan, was basically livin of TV dinner and Eggo Waffles and the 25cent fruit from Kroger.

Dylan was a result from a high-school sweetheart who left you as soon as you found out you were pregnant. the guy took off, not leaving a dime.

the fridge was barely stocked, nor running very well, the lights flickered, and drips fell from faucets and pipes. all you wanted was the best for Dylan, and… well… you couldn’t do that. guilt hung in you stomach since the day Dylan’s father left, and your trying your best to make ends meet.

so, you sat at that tiny table, a huge pile of bills and checks and paper, head in your hands and bags under your eyes. those 13 hour long shifts really take a toll on you. Suddenly, the sound of keys jingling and the the door closing shut, and heavy footsteps came in. Dylan was home.