When Will Mom Be Home?

Chapter One

Where were you when you got the phone call? Everyone remembers where they were when they picked up the phone and heard a stranger on the other line. I have a feeling that you weren't expecting it, after all, that's where I was in March 25th.

That morning I was teaching history to high school students, standing in front of a blackboard. My wife, Cassandra and I had organised to go out for lunch but I cancelled last minute to mark papers. When school was out, I got the call.

"Mister Thompson," the police officer said from beside me. "Is this your wife?"

She laid flat on the table, her chocolate brown eyes wide open, a gunshot wound centred on her forehead. Her caramel toned skin is the palest I've ever seen it. Her relaxed black hair, dyed red from her own blood.

I nodded slowly, confirming to not only the officer but also to myself that my wife was dead. When I left the hospital morgue, I put my head into the trash can and threw up, what felt to be half my body weight.

When I came home, I found my mother putting my baby girl Jazmin to sleep. I remember the words my father told me before he ran out on my mother and I — boys don't cry — he would scream that phrase relentlessly whenever I dared to show emotion.

"What am I supposed to tell her when she's grown?" I ask my mother, "that some fucker put a bullet through her mom's damn head"

My mother sighed. "You tell her the truth...that her momma is a hero for pressing that button at the bank—"

"Pressing that damn button got her shot, ma"

"And if she hadn't done it, it woulda got dem all shot"

"The mother fucker that killed her is in custody" I explain, "he was armed and killed my wife and they didn't shoot him...if it were one of us, his brains would be all over the fucking walls at that bank...they shoot when it's an innocent kid with a bag of skittles but not some white fucker with a pistol"

My mother shoots me a look. One of those fucking stern looks that meant I was about to get scolded. I often give them to my students to get them to listen to what I gotta say.

"Follow me" she ordered, guiding me to the backyard where there's minimal light and no sounds to be heard but the owls. "Go on!" She folded her arms.

"Go on what?" I clench my jaw.

"I'm going to let you have your moment, take as long as you need but as soon as you're finished, that's it" she explains, "when you walk back into that house, you're going to be that little girls rock! I don't want to hear another word about how angry you are and if I do, you're going to get your ass whooped, understood?"

I stand with my jaw clenched, I nod in agreement. My mind goes back to when my father left us. I can't help but think that this is what she did when he walked out.

"Yeah, understood." My eyes well up with tears.

My mum nods and walks back inside. I drop to my knees and scream at the top of my lungs, looking up at the navy blue sky. I grovel and sob like a little kid. I know I need to fight for my daughter but how am I supposed to do that when I feel like I'm the one that fucking died?

A part of me died with Cassandra. When her soul left her body, all the parts of me that I liked died too — she was the best parts of me. The only thing good about me was her and now they're gone.

Images of her face flash in my head, all her beauty and wisdom and how sexy she is — was... Then I remember the hole in her perfect head. Bright red bloody staining her skin and her hair and her clothes and teeth. I slam my fist against the grass and let out another prolonged scream of fury. I want to kill that mother fucker. Cassandra didn't do anything wrong to deserve this, she had the biggest heart.

All she did was press that damn button when that piece of white trash came into the bank to rob it. She saw the gun and instead of running or hiding, she pressed the button under the desk to call the cops. And he shot her within seconds. She was the only one killed. Not those pieces of shit that worked with her. Not the fucking bank manager — but her. My wife. My heart and soul. We were trying for another baby. Our new year resolution was to travel abroad — I've been promising since our wedding we would.

If only I hadn't cancelled today. I hate every inch of my self for making that fucking call to cancel lunch to grade papers. Fuck those papers and fuck me. She wouldn't have been there when the robbery happened. She wasn't supposed to be there. She was supposed to be with me. In my arms.

When my now three-year-old daughter asks me what I did, my answer will always be: I killed her. She would still be here if I wasn't a horrible husband and an even worse father. I scream again, louder this time, pounding my fists against the grass. The prolong whaling of a grieving man are the worst kinds of screams — my mother would tell me.

I wanted to die. I wanted it so bad but I couldn't. I had to be strong for my daughter.

When walking back inside, I locked my eyes with my mother in the distance. She nodded, I followed her actions and did the same.