Evan looks up, his face angelic, and says: “Well, this isn’t a conversation for little boys,” and runs off, barely containing his laughter. I watch him leave, sighing. It’s my turn now.
“No, there’s no boyfriend. He just dropped me home.”
“Chris,” she says, her tone accusing. “You have a very observant teenager at home, who only has you as an example – he could start following in your footsteps, making the same mistakes as you.”
“It was nothing, Mum. And besides, I didn’t even know Evan was home.”
When does he ever come home before his curfew?
“You should have yourfunelsewhere, instead of bringing it home.”
“I didn’t have anyfun. I told you, he just dropped me home. I was out with Vic, we had a bit to drink, and…”
“Well, that’s miles better!” she scoffs, agitatedly shifting in her seat, patting down her freshly-coiffed hair.
“We’re not here to judge,” my father interjects, always the calmer, more thoughtful parent. “Just be careful, Chris. Okay?”
I lower my head and take another sip of my coffee, though I don’t even want it anymore.
Deep down, I know they’re right, but I hate that they judge my every move, still trying to teach me how to raise my son, even though I’ve been doing it on my own for sixteen years. Despite everything, I think Evan’s turned out okay.
I threw everything I had into raising him, putting him before everything else. I tried my best. I gave him a home, a good future. Love, support, understanding. I’m not saying I’ve been a perfect mother, but I’ve given him everything I could – even though disaster tends to follow me around. Evan’s the only good thing I’ve made of my life.
