ICOUNT FIVE heaped spoonsful of coffee into the cafetière, hoping the smell of freshly brewed coffee will get him up. We both like a strong coffee in the morning. I take my time before I push down the plunger to avoid any Kaffeeprütt. Even after 30 years I don’t know the English equivalent for the gritty residue of grounded coffee, which ends in your cup if you don’t allow it to settle. ‘German sounds funny,’ he’d say and laugh when he was little. Now, he doesn’t use his German name anymore. When the toast pops up I hold back from spreading the butter for him.
I feel a strong urge to go out for a cigarette but don’t when I hear his footsteps on the stairs.
‘Hey, it’s late. Your dad will be here soon,’ I say as he walks into the kitchen. He plonks himself onto his chair, oblivious to its wobbly legs creaking under his weight. His smell of deodorant mingles with the sharp sweetness of coffee and toast assaulting my nose. I hold my breath, suppressing the sneeze. He would take it as a personal attack, and now is not the time to discuss the pros and cons of aerosol deodorant.
‘Coffee?’ I push his Game of Thrones mug towards him.
‘Thanks,’ he says, running his hands through his short, wavy hair. ‘Everything ready? Have you got your papers? The folder is on your desk. And don’t forget your contact lens solution…’ I stop myself when I notice his socks: one purple, the other orange. Nothing new there. I shake my head. ‘Hope you got some pairs left.’ I laugh at my own joke.
He sips his coffee and mumbles something, which I interpret as Stop fussing, Mum. He doesn’t look up and keeps scrolling on his phone, as if today was no different from any other day. But today, he is not going to school, and he won’t be back for dinner. He is about to catch the train to Sheffield to go to university.
‘Remember,’ I say, pointing to his purple sweatshirt, ‘make sure you don’t wash the lights with the darks.’
‘Mum, I’ll be fine.’ But his hands tremble when he reaches for the toast. When he was smaller, I’d hold them, and then I’d run my fingers through his curls to make him feel safe. One ringlet always resisted and fell back across his forehead.
Now, he runs his own fingers through his hair.
I look at his photo on the fridge door. The arms of the oversized dark blue sweatshirt are so long it hides his hands. He holds a Schultüte almost as tall as him. My mother had made the bright yellow cone for him and filled it with his favourite chocolates, crayons and toy cars to sweeten his first day at school. She always insisted that I should uphold German customs and speak German to him. ‘But you’re embarrassing him,’ his father would say.
I stopped baking German plum cake and rye bread. We stopped going to Dortmund to see my parents. His father stopped looking at me. When he left us I went to work to be able to fill the fridge with my son’s favourite foods: microwavable burgers and chips, cream cakes and chocolate bars.
I heard him play Games of Thrones through the night, ignored the vibrating floorboards above my bed and the constant clicking of the keyboard. He is alright. He is a teenager, I told myself when he took his dinners upstairs to talk to his friends on face time. I should have ask him to wash the pots with me and to make popcorn together on Friday nights to watch Star Wars, or tell him about the books I read. Instead he laughed on his own watching other families on TV.
‘Sheffield will be great. You must hop on to the paternoster lift in the Arts Tower.’ I want to tell him about my time as a student in Sheffield. About how scared I was not to jump out at the right moment, about the great views over the city, the walking trips on the edge of Froggatt in the Peak District, and the lush greens in the Botanical Gardens. ‘And you must go to the Frog and Parrot! It’s still going. I’ve only recently seen a post on Twitter. You’ll have so much fun and make so many new friends – and it’s a fresh start!’ The moment I said it, I wish I hadn’t. ‘I can show you on the map,’ I fiddle with my phone, but the words linger like cigarette smoke in the air.
I see the downy fluff formed on his upper lip. Soon, he will need to shave. ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ He runs his fingers through his hair, and the flecked green in his light brown eyes intensifies, just like his dad’s, when he gets annoyed. ‘You don’t understand, have never understood what it is like to be me!’
I do. I want to say. I do. I take a big sip of my coffee swallowing hard, longing to smoke a cigarette. What good would it do to go back there?
‘Maybe I don’t,’ I say when the nausea fades, ‘but …’ ‘But what, mum?’
I want to look into his eyes and tell him. It wasn’t your fault, I want to say, it wasn’t your fault. That night. How it haunted me. The smell of my vomit. The voices demanding my name, asking over and over again, how many, how many did you take? His voice, ‘Mummy, mummy.’ Instead, I gaze into the garden and watch the rain wash away the heat from the last few days. Suddenly, I feel weary, weary of the last few years. Weary of the weight to explain the impossible.
‘Just say it, mum.’ His hands tremble when running them through his hair. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ Why mum? – Why even have children?’
His phone buzzes and I know it is his dad waiting outside in the car. He grabs his bags and walks out before I have a chance to answer. I watch him getting into the car, hoping to catch a last glimpse of him.
I don’t know, I think, when he is gone. I don’t know.
‘Hey, it’s late. Your dad will be here soon,’ I say as he walks into the kitchen. He plonks himself onto his chair, oblivious to its wobbly legs creaking under his weight. His smell of deodorant mingles with the sharp sweetness of coffee and toast assaulting my nose. I hold my breath, suppressing the sneeze. He would take it as a personal attack, and now is not the time to discuss the pros and cons of aerosol deodorant.
‘Coffee?’ I push his Game of Thrones mug towards him.
‘Thanks,’ he says, running his hands through his short, wavy hair. ‘Everything ready? Have you got your papers? The folder is on your desk. And don’t forget your contact lens solution…’ I stop myself when I notice his socks: one purple, the other orange. Nothing new there. I shake my head. ‘Hope you got some pairs left.’ I laugh at my own joke.
He sips his coffee and mumbles something, which I interpret as Stop fussing, Mum. He doesn’t look up and keeps scrolling on his phone, as if today was no different from any other day. But today, he is not going to school, and he won’t be back for dinner. He is about to catch the train to Sheffield to go to university.
‘Remember,’ I say, pointing to his purple sweatshirt, ‘make sure you don’t wash the lights with the darks.’
‘Mum, I’ll be fine.’ But his hands tremble when he reaches for the toast. When he was smaller, I’d hold them, and then I’d run my fingers through his curls to make him feel safe. One ringlet always resisted and fell back across his forehead.
Now, he runs his own fingers through his hair.
I look at his photo on the fridge door. The arms of the oversized dark blue sweatshirt are so long it hides his hands. He holds a Schultüte almost as tall as him. My mother had made the bright yellow cone for him and filled it with his favourite chocolates, crayons and toy cars to sweeten his first day at school. She always insisted that I should uphold German customs and speak German to him. ‘But you’re embarrassing him,’ his father would say.
I stopped baking German plum cake and rye bread. We stopped going to Dortmund to see my parents. His father stopped looking at me. When he left us I went to work to be able to fill the fridge with my son’s favourite foods: microwavable burgers and chips, cream cakes and chocolate bars.
I heard him play Games of Thrones through the night, ignored the vibrating floorboards above my bed and the constant clicking of the keyboard. He is alright. He is a teenager, I told myself when he took his dinners upstairs to talk to his friends on face time. I should have ask him to wash the pots with me and to make popcorn together on Friday nights to watch Star Wars, or tell him about the books I read. Instead he laughed on his own watching other families on TV.
‘Sheffield will be great. You must hop on to the paternoster lift in the Arts Tower.’ I want to tell him about my time as a student in Sheffield. About how scared I was not to jump out at the right moment, about the great views over the city, the walking trips on the edge of Froggatt in the Peak District, and the lush greens in the Botanical Gardens. ‘And you must go to the Frog and Parrot! It’s still going. I’ve only recently seen a post on Twitter. You’ll have so much fun and make so many new friends – and it’s a fresh start!’ The moment I said it, I wish I hadn’t. ‘I can show you on the map,’ I fiddle with my phone, but the words linger like cigarette smoke in the air.
I see the downy fluff formed on his upper lip. Soon, he will need to shave. ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ He runs his fingers through his hair, and the flecked green in his light brown eyes intensifies, just like his dad’s, when he gets annoyed. ‘You don’t understand, have never understood what it is like to be me!’
I do. I want to say. I do. I take a big sip of my coffee swallowing hard, longing to smoke a cigarette. What good would it do to go back there?
‘Maybe I don’t,’ I say when the nausea fades, ‘but …’ ‘But what, mum?’
I want to look into his eyes and tell him. It wasn’t your fault, I want to say, it wasn’t your fault. That night. How it haunted me. The smell of my vomit. The voices demanding my name, asking over and over again, how many, how many did you take? His voice, ‘Mummy, mummy.’ Instead, I gaze into the garden and watch the rain wash away the heat from the last few days. Suddenly, I feel weary, weary of the last few years. Weary of the weight to explain the impossible.
‘Just say it, mum.’ His hands tremble when running them through his hair. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ Why mum? – Why even have children?’
His phone buzzes and I know it is his dad waiting outside in the car. He grabs his bags and walks out before I have a chance to answer. I watch him getting into the car, hoping to catch a last glimpse of him.
I don’t know, I think, when he is gone. I don’t know.
Birgit Friedrich, originally from Germany, found her home in Nottingham in her thirties, immersing herself in the city’s vibrant life. Her poetry and fiction delve into her personal journey and explore themes of resilience, cultural integration and belonging. Her work has been featured in various publications. After her MA in Creative Writing, she co-founded Dandelion’s Poetry, a local poetry group. She enjoys spending time with her friends.
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