Isys never planned on starting over alone. After the passing of her son's father, the young single mom has learned to move in silence, trust no one, and keep her world small just her 5 year old son Kyser, her brushes, and her job as a makeup artist...
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Grief doesn't hit like a storm. Storms come fast, loud, violent. Grief is quieter soemthing that cralws into your chest, curls up, and stays.
Two years later, mine still hadn't moved out. Most morning, I woke up with that tight, heavy feeling. Some days it sufforcated me, other days it whispered. Today it whispered.
I sat up slowly, blinking at the soft morning light creeping through my cheap apartment blinds. My bed was a mess of blankets and a starfished five-year-olf who somehow always manged to sleep sideways.
"Kyser," I said gently, rubbing his back. "Baby, its time to get up."
He mumbled something into his pillow, sounding exactly like his daddy when he didn't wanna be bothered. That resemblance alone was enough to sting.
I swalloed it down. I already did.
"Come on, little man," I whispered. "We gotta get ready."
He sat up with his curls in every direction and blinked at me, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Mommy, can we have pancakes?" he asked.
I hesitated.
"Yeah," I said. "We can do pancakes."
His grin spread instantly. That was the thing about kids they could find happiness anywhere, ever in the kitchen that was a mess from the night before.
I got him dressed, helped him brush his teeth, and packed his dinosaur backpack while he sand some song he made up on the spot. It didn't rhyme, but it was loud, and loud meant he was happy.
Before we left the apartment, I paused at the doorm staring at the small photo pinned to the frame. Kyser in his father's arms. Kyser was barlet one. His dad's smiled so warm it still broke me.
"You'd be proud of him," I murmured. But I didn't let myself look too long. Looking too long made me crumble.
The shop was already buzzing when we got there. The sound of blow dryers, laughter, and the faint smell of hair spray filled the air. My makeup chair was tucked in the corner, lights framing the mirror like a dressing room on a movie set.
I tried to make it homey. Try to make it mine.
Kamal, my older brother, was already there... loud, annoyed, and drinking the last of the community creamer again.
"You're late," he said, even though he was the one who promised to open for me this morning.
I gave him a look. "You say that every day."
"That's because you're late every day."
"That's because I have a five-year-old," I shot back.
Kyser clung to my leg and peeked up at Kamal. "Uncle, can I have gummies?"
