"Brew..."

3.

"Morgan Andrew Mathews, you come back here!"

I re-traced my steps to confront my mother. I was halfway up the staircase, and on my way to my room when I heard her shout from the kitchen.

"We cannot go on like this young man." I scowled at her, she knows the exact reason why I wouldn't talk to her.

"Say something!" She throws the dirty rag she was holding to the sink nearby, and reaches for the glass of water on the counter top.

"What do you want me to say? That I despise you? You who buried my father without giving him the proper funeral? That I hate you for taking away my time to mourn for him? That I am mad at how you come home after vanishing an entire day, and then tell me that dad's final resting place has been taken cared of. And that there's nothing else for me to do or worry about? Don't I have a say on the matter? I'm his son!"

"And I'm his wife! You have no idea how difficult it is for me to bury the man I have loved since sixth grade. Or the pain I had to endure seeing him wither away in a cramped, sanitized, hospital bed. Or the sadness I had to keep bottled up after I left the fresh mound in the cemetery to come home and cook dinner for you. It was his dying wish! He told me he has seen so many sad faces while he was sick, that he didn't want anyone mourning his death... most of all, you!" She cried while telling me all this.

"Don't I have a right to know? A right to feel? And most of all... a right to say goodbye to him one last time before I finally accept that he's gone so that I can move on with my life? You had no right to take that away from me!" I felt cold, my face felt numb. It took too much energy to argue, what's done is done.

"Morgan, your father didn't want you to be sad. I thought I was doing you a favor by sheltering you from the pain. I thought I could shed the tears for both of us. Keep you far away from the hurt of losing him. Your father loved you too much to ever want to see you cry."

"And I guess you loved me less... to take away my chance to thank him one last time, and tell him I love him. How could you be so selfish, Ma?" I felt a tear trickle down my left cheek, and wiped it immediately as I climbed the stairs to cry into my pillow.

I sobbed quietly, the sound being muffled by the thick cotton covering my face. It has been like this for an entire week now. I cried everytime I got home, my pillow was the only witness to how I missed my dear father.

How I wished I was given more time to say thank you for everything he has done for me and my mom. And how I loved them both. Yes, I may be mad at my mom... but I still love her though. In time, when the pain has gone I will be able to face her again without anger in my eyes and tell her that.

For now however, this pillow will have to take the brunt of all my sadness.

I must have fallen asleep while crying. I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table to see that it was 10 in the evening. 3 hours have passed since I had that arguement with my mom.

By now she must be at work, a few blocks from where we live, where she works as a cashier at a gas station.

I slowly rose from the bed to change into my house clothes, and then went down to the kitchen to eat my dinner. The dinning table was set, a few plates were covered to keep the food clean and warm.

A note stuck between my empty glass and plate read: "I'm sorry. I guess I just agreed wholeheartedly with your father that sadness doesn't look good on you. Please forgive me. I love you son."

I felt another tear trickle down my face. "I love you too mom." I whispered.

Just as I was about to sit down to eat, a timid knock on the front door interrupted me. I walked steadily to the heavily carved wooden door, and checked to see who was on the other side by using the peephole.

I was surprised to see sheriff McCleod with his hands on his hips. A grim expression on his face. I slowly opened the door to greet him.

"Evening, son." He greeted before I could say a word. He tipped his hat while saying that.

"Sheriff, good evening. Is there a problem? My mom's at work, sir. But I'd be more than glad to relay any message you might have for her." I said.

"I know Morgan, and no, I wasn't looking for your mom. Perhaps you should sit down first, I have something to tell you." He fidgeted nervously with his hat.

"Of course sheriff. Please come in, sir." I lead him to the caramel leather couches we had in the living room. I sat down nervously after he sighed, and sat himself down.

He was quiet for a few minutes before he cleared his throat, and looked directly at me.

"Your mom arrived at work about an hour ago. The surveillance cams at the gas station caught everything. How she clocked in for work, how she made small talk to Tina before she relieved the latter of her duties, and how less than 15 minutes after Tina left... the robbery happened." He cleared his throat, nervously shifting in his seat, and I somehow felt a sinking feeling.

"Morgan, I'm sorry. Your mother is gone. The robbers shot her, point blank. A single bullet... through her skull. We'd like you to come down to the station, son. The footages might have captured several faces that you could identify. I know how hard this is for you. Losing your father not so long ago, and then now... Morgan? Morgan! Son... Morgan!"

I felt darkness surround me. All consciousness seemed to have deserted me suddenly.

My body felt so heavy, as I slid down from the couch uncontrollably, hitting my head against the corner of the coffee table, before collapsing heavily on the shiny wooden floor, and then... blacking out.