The morning I finally heard the truth, my son stood in our narrow hallway in Surulere, one shoe on, one sock twisted, his backpack hanging open like a mouth that had given up.
He looked at me with wet, frightened eyes and asked, for what felt like the hundredth time, "Why should I go to school?"
I nearly snapped. Not because I hated him. Not because I was cruel. I was exhausted, late for work, and already angry at myself for how often his questions scraped against my nerves.
The kettle had boiled dry. My phone kept buzzing with missed calls from a client in town. Get The Full Story Here