The Freedom Writer

Hanging onto Love

Red on white. A beautiful sight indeed. I, Mathew Cavendish, am standing in front of my easel. Paint is splattered all over my apron and covers the wooden palette. I am a 19 year old artist in college, trying to make a name for myself. The nearly finished painting is of an old and twisted tree that is being battered by the winter blizzard. The tree in the painting has big red rubies of fruit dripping on the weak branches. Despite the storm the tree is still standing. I still have had this image in my head for 7 years. It is the only thing I can think about at night, and it is my nightmares and dreams. Ever since that awful morning of July 25th . . .

. . .

. . . I woke up with a start, and tried to figure out what disturbed my slumber. I looked out the window of his bedroom and watched in wonder at the magical winter wonderland that appeared outside. The wind was howling softly as if grieving in a library. The morning was not joyous, because nature was mourning. As I watched longer and longer, I heard the notes of melancholy that were laced in the songs the birds sang. The harmonious sounds that originated with the birds resembled an organ at a funeral service.

My curiosity grew as soon as I realised that the house was quiet. The house was filled with silence’s wails. There was no screaming or yelling coming from either of my parents. What probably started out as an idyllic marriage grew to waste. My mother and I, realised long ago that my father, who was a gardener, had only one love in his life and it wasn’t either of them. My father only loved his prized possession, his pomegranate tree. A tree that was as old as me, and never failed to produce fruit bigger than my fists.

That was until recently, when everyone realised that the pomegranate tree was dying as year by year it produced less fruit than the year before. As the tree started declining, so did Jack Cavendish (my father). As time passed on Jack Cavendish started coming home drunk as a skunk in the early hours of the morning. As time passed on the arguments and the shouting matches grew longer and longer in length. It got to a point where the screaming went on until both of their voices were cracking. Usually I would sleep to the sounds of screaming and wake up to it as well. I hadn’t heard the usual sounds this morning. Curiouser and curiouser.

I tiptoed down the stairs, and mentally cursed at the moaning planks of wood that made being stealthy impossible.

CREAK!

Careful not to wake either of my parents I tiptoed into the backyard and stared at the sight that greeted me. My hair had a cowlick on one side and I was wearing my pyjamas and standing barefooted in snow, but none of that mattered at this moment.

I was staring at a sight that horrified him more than anything else. The pomegranate tree was dead. All the trees had fallen off sometime during the night but that was not all. On one of the stronger branches of the dead tree, Jack Cavendish hung there like a puppet with no master. It was impossible to tell whether Jack Cavendish died from the cold or the necklace of rope he had worn.

The Dire Wolf

Red eyes piercing through the dark veil of the night. Stalking and searching for it’s next target. Still and unyielding as a rock with never ending patience. Soft fur like snow that barely moved. No sign of life apart from the eye’s. The eyes, blood red and the only trace of her previous victims. The wind breathed slightly watching and waiting. The whole forest stood still not exhaling yet. All the silent observers waiting for the dire wolf’s next meal to appear. The moon observed by the clouds shined bright. The crickets were chirping. Her ears stand up at an inaudible sound that is masked by the chirping cricket. Soft and muffled footsteps on the wet damp leaves of the forest floor. A shy young doe came out of hiding not aware of the dire wolf watching her. Unaware, the shy doe walks directly in front of the dire wolf. She saw a white shadow leaping out of the darkness.

Lost

“Mama! Papa! Where are you?” The lost boy wailed. Snot running down his nose. His cheeks were wet and red. He had misplaced his parents fifteen minutes ago, in Coles when he was looking at the candy section. Since the lost boy had been wandering the store trying to find them.

“Mama! Papa! Where are you?” He continued to wail “Mama!” and “Papa!” as he navigated the maze of isles. Thoughts running through his head like “Am I an orphan? Do I need to sell my hair?”

At these thoughts he wailed even harder. He was blinded by the tears that overtook his eyes. He started kicking and screaming as familiar hands lifted up into the air. The no longer lost boy hugged his parents.

Out of Reach

It was a beautifully sunny day with the sky a brilliant blue. Silver clouds dotted the sky and the sun playing hide and seek. The green grass was freshly cut but was unfortunately trampled by the colourful stalls and screaming children. All the stalls were festooned with bright lights and plush toy prizes. Tents set serving food with tantalizing aromas. Sweat and precipitation stained everyone’s clothes in the sticky humid weather. It was just another Los Angeles summer.

I chow down my chilli cheese fries with gusto. Wandering around the place, deciding what to do next. Probably shouldn’t do anything that involves leaving my stomach on the ground or hurling my guts out. I spy a candy apple stall across the oval. I can already imagine the sweet sticky toffee coated crunchy apple filling my mouth. The thick and creamy toffee gluing my mouth shut. My dentist will probably not like eating so much sugar but I can’t resist. Besides, I can always start my sugar-free diet tomorrow.

I check my purse and see that I have just enough one candy apple and that’s it. That is fine with me. I can hardly wait now to sink my teeth into the apple. I ran. Iran as fast as I could, but did not see the huge snaking line in front of the stall until I got there. I reached the end of the queue and waited. I waited and waited for seemed like forever.

Slow, antagonizing steps toward my candy apple. The candy apple would be a great finish to my trip. I am hopping on the plane tomorrow back to Australia. As I reached the front of the line, I got the money ready in the palm of my hand. I got to the counter and opened my mouth and said, “ I would like one candy apple please.”

The lady and the counter replied,“Sorry, we are all out of candy apples. You can come back tomorrow to get one if you wish.”

No Escape

Sarah awoke in fright. It was the middle of the night. Shadows danced in her room, and the silence was deafening. Only broken by Sarah’s gasps as she recovered from her nightmare drenched in cold sweat and the bedspeets tangled in her sprawling limbs.

She had been having the same nightmare for a while now. She had been, ever since she had visited a fortune teller who told her that she would be visited by a strange creature of sorts. The fortune teller never saw the face of this mysterious creature, she only knew of its arrival. She called it a dreamon. A type of demon that can control its victims’ dreams. They feed on terror and fear until their victims die of fright.

Sarah dismissed it as crazy talk. Demons? Please! Those things don’t exist. Sure, she has had a string of nightmares lately, but those have to be coincidental. Right? Sarah quickly glanced around her room making sure that no visitors snuck in, while she was sleeping. Satisfied, she went back to sleep and started twitching once more as another nightmare took hold.

She never witnessed the pale white fingertips that slowly emerged from under the bed. . .

Twice Bitten, Thrice Shy

Connor Maxwell was a hormonal teenage boy. That’s all. He lived alone with his father, Edward Maxwell, the super rich guy that owns half the city. Connor’s mother abandoned him and was forgotten about after she slit her wrist some years previously. Forgotten by all but one; her darling son Connor.

Connor and his father, Edward were no different. They had a rocky relationship that only grew rockier as time went on. It eventually spiraled out of control without Daphne (Connor’s mum) to iron the edges. The tension was so solid that you would need a chainsaw to cut through. The silence was deafening.

About two years after Daphne’s death both Connor and his father sat at opposite ends of an elongated table that went wall to wall in the dining room which more resembled a king’s Great Hall than anything else. The servants served a three course meal, one plate per person at a time as per usual.

“Boy,” Edward Maxwell skipped the pleasantries, “Why are your grades down?”

“What are you talking about?” asked a confused Connor

“Boy,” Edward was getting angrier now, “Don’t play with me! I asked why are your grades so low. Your lowest score was 99 and 98 which is absolutely unacceptable for a Maxwell Man!”

“Right because you only got nothing below a 100 for each and every test!” Connor predicted.

“Dial down your tone, Boy! I have allowed you freedom to go to any school you wished and clearly that freedom was misplaced!” Edward forcefully proclaimed.

“Mom won’t want this!” Connor shouted.

“BOY! YOU WOULD BE ON THE STREETS IF IT WASN’T FOR ME! MY HOUSE, MY RULES! YOU NEED TO LEARN A LITTLE RESPECT FOR YOUR BETTERS, AND TO LEARN SOME DISCIPLINE AS WELL! TO LEARN HOW TO CURB THAT UNRULY TONGUE OF YOURS! YOU CLEARLY NEED TO GO TO A MILITARY BOARDING SCHOOL!”

“NO! YOU KNOW WHAT? I WOULD BE BETTER OFF, IF I WAS ON THE STREETS. I DON’T WANT YOUR STUPID MONEY! I DEFINITELY DON’T WANT TO GO TO YOUR STUPID BOARDING SCHOOL!” Connor yelled back to his father in response. At this point they were both standing up with nothing else to say. The house was filled with an uncomfortable silence. The deafening silence took control once more. Connor retired to his bed. Connor had for the first time in his life, stood up to his father. He was proud of himself. Soon exhaustion overtook him, and he nodded off. Downstairs, Edward Maxwell was left alone to his thoughts.

In later years, Connor often made sure to never sleep on an argument. It was a rookie mistake. It should be resolved before either person sleeps to ensure that neither does anything dramatic nor life-changing the next morning.

Connor had a fitful sleep and the bedsheets tangled around him. In his sleep he resolved to make amends with his father and come to a compromise. It might have been difficult to negotiate with such a stubborn man like Edward Maxwell, but Connor was determined to try.

Bleary-eyed, he rose from the bed, and adjusted to the harsh sunlight filtering through his bedroom window. Connor stumbled down the stairs to the dining room where the cook would serve breakfast. Strange, he thought. Connor noticed that there was no detectable aroma wafting from the kitchen. The entire house was empty; even the furniture had disappeared . . .

There was a red notice pinned to the door. There was a big, bold heading witten on it, and it read: YOU ARE DISOWNED . . .

Careful What You Wish For

Will Jackson did not have an abundance of patience. In fact he had none at all. He did absolutely everything with briskness. Briskness was the one thing that anyone and everyone successful, shared in common he decided. So briskness it was. It would lead to success. He did not have the time for nonsensical things like luck or wishes. Will Jackson was utterly clueless to the power they hold.

. . .

It was a cloudy morning with an unrisen sun. The streets were wet and dark, with flickering lamp posts. Fog and shadows creeped along the streets. The Big Ben struck 5 to a seemingly sleeping city. The Underground was a different matter altogether. It was high on caffeine 24/7. The Tube was overflowing with passengers who didn’t have time to smell the roses.

Mr Jackson was proud of himself for being a punctual fellow. Imagine his shock as he overslept! Waking up 15 minutes later than planned! This threw the whole schedule off-course. That is how a very tranquil and very brisk man huffed and puffed at a fast jog in the bitter cold beauty of London.

His black leather shoes polished to perfection slowing him down, smart navy tie chafing him and brown leather briefcase in hand. A sharp grey blazer with matching dress pants, crisp white shirt with an ethereal halo and brown trench coat on top. Perched upon his head was a plain bowler hat that he was never seen without. His red and sweaty face ruined the effect of a professional business man that his clothing told the story of.

His flat was a little far away from the entrance of the Underground. Mr Jackson didn’t have time to hail a taxi. Even if he did, taxis seldom operated at these ungodly hours. So a very brisk run it was. The particular Tube he was catching would lead him to a rising company, where he would be working for the first time. He had to make a good first impression. If he didn’t . . . He didn’t want to even entertain such thoughts. He never allowed negative thoughts or doubts to plague his mind and he wasn’t about to start now.

Will Jackson rushed into the entrance of the Underworld and flew down the concrete stairs like a blur that the naked eye could not focus upon. He impatiently paid his fare of Oysters, and flew once more down the various levels to a Tube that would leave without him.

Mr Jackson uttered the magic words. He whispered to himself “ I wish that for once the Tube would be delayed.”

As mentioned before, Mr Will Jackson never could fathom the power that wishes hold. By the time he reached platform 9, the Tube had departed seconds before. No matter, the next Tube would arrive in 5 minutes and he wouldn’t end up fashionably late which suited Will Jackson’s purposes perfectly fine. He would just have to wait.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the robotic voice of the computer system, “The next Tube heading to Woolford, stopping all stations has been delayed by 30 minutes. Sorry for any inconvenience.”

How was your day?

White walls, green plants and a violet painting; I have no idea how I got here. Sitting in my uncomfortable uniform,on the leather couch looking at the therapist opposite me. She was blonde and young but there was something off with her.

“How was your day?” She asks in a suspicious voice of honey.

How was my day? There is nothing special about today or any other day. Unless you count being bullied and targeted by Zane and his thugs. He even made a new friend that I introduced to him too; my right fist.

“Normal. It was normal.”

And she smiled way too wide.

You Reap What You Sow

Charlie and Aaron were quite the duo in town. Inseparable. They did everything together. They were both born on the same day at the same time, and their mothers were best of friends. They were raised together, Charlie was quiet and thoughtful-the muted one. The sidekick. Aaron was a troublemaker and prankster to the core. He was the star of the show. Charlie was mostly a shadow. They were exact opposites, Yin and Yang. Inside they had the same sort of soul. That was not always clear until 3 months ago

3 months ago, Aaron got behind the wheel drunk and didn’t survive the crash. Everyone felt his death. He was the star after all. At school, everyone expected him to walk through the doors with his trademark smirk painted on his face. Charlie walked in alone. He felt like he was only half of himself, he was ripped apart when Aaron died. He retreated deep inside himself. and wondered it there had been some universal mistake. He was just the sidekick; the shadow, Aaron was the main attraction. He was the biggest part of the show.

The funeral was a few days later. If Aaron had still been alive, he would have died at his own funeral. It was depressing. Everyone attended. Everyone tip-toed around words like death. The day became more depressing when Mother Nature started crying for Aaron’s death as well. Charlie walked out with no umbrella and a thin black coat. No one stopped him. No one ever saw him. He was invisible without Aaron.

His hair plastered to his face, with water dripping off his nose. He looked up towards the sky and screamed at the top of his longs “Why wasn’t it me?” He screamed until voice was hoarse and he could no longer feel his hands and feet. He didn’t care. Not one bit. It was supposed to be him that died. Not Aaron.

Charlie was still here. Why was he here? He trudged home with burning questions and no answers. He was soaked to the skin. His clothes; a second skin and his mind in a whole different dimension.

School the next day was quiet. Aaron was usually the main source of noise and mischief in the echoing halls. His pranks were legendary until it paled in comparison to its successor. Even though teachers could never trace it back to him and he claimed that he had nothing to do with them, but everyone instinctively knew it was him.

Aaron would want one last hurrah. One last laugh. Charlie didn’t possessed him him wanted to make some noise. So tired of being invisible, here was his chance. He decided to finish the prank that Aaron wanted to do but never got to do. It would take a bit time seeing as there was only of him, and it definitely can’t be traced back to him.

. . .

There was wires and air horns all over the school, so that every time that someone opened or closed a door the air horn would toot in the rhythm and beat of the last post. At the gates of the school there was a notice that is was International No Homework Day and that teachers were compelled to give no homework that day. At exactly the 10:45 am glitter, confetti and streamers exploded into the hallways, and shortly after a video popped on to every screen on school premises.

The video was something that Aaron made before his death, but there he was. His trademark smirk and sparkling eyes. His hands messing up his perfectly tousled hair. He looked straight at the camera, oblivious to the fate that befell him.

“I have a confession to make. I never came up with those pranks. I was the one that did them but not my ideas. This chaos that this prank caused was my idea however. This is my last year in school and before I travel far away from home and I hope that you know that I will always be here, no matter what in the hearts of those that remember me. Anyways . . . peace out!”

A slow clap came from everyone within the school. That was how they would always remember him. Not as the kid that died drunk driving, but as the kid held all the hearts of everyone here. The guy that light up every room.

In the morning he no longer felt like a shadow. It felt like taking a deep breath for the first time. His face contorted to reveal incredible sadness, as he came to terms with the prospect of not being able to see his best friend again. “You reap what you sow,” he said in a heart broken whisper.

He would always miss Aaron, but life moves on. As did as he.

Breaking Promises

Chapter 1 – Rhydian

As I flopped onto the bed, a flash of colour caught my eye. Probably the only colour in my whole black and white room. A postcard from mum. The last one before she died. The funny thing is that she never travelled to Fuji, where she always wanted to go. Yet on the front of the postcard is a picture of a beach in Fuji. The postcard was a symbol of a promise I made to her. That I will live my life with absolutely no regrets. On the back of the card are two words. Just two simple words that were for my eyes only; Will you? I will mum. I will, and I know just how.

. . .

A repetitive pecking graced my bedroom window. The resident bird; Breezy. An aqua fellow with brown wings and orange beak. Here for his daily dinner, fit for the Bird King; ten apple seeds. With a smile painted upon my face I swung my legs off the bed and grabbed the tin of apple seeds that I saved up for the day. Breezy was never late if it meant free food. The first day I met him, I made a promise; I will never leave you. I didn’t realize what that meant at the time. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that my mum would die 20 days before my birthday. I definitely didn’t realize over time that what was once true would become lies.

As Breezy pecked at his feast I thought about how much I would miss him. Miss everyone really. Mostly. Okay fine, only Breezy and my dad. I don’t really have friends. No one wants to be friends with Rhydian Wolf, the school photographer and social pariah. My dad is unstable and unreliable and drunk at best. At worst – well I don’t want a repeat. I looked around my sanctuary (my bedroom) and realised one thing. Nothing is permanent, books still in their boxes, no colour and blank walls. Like I am a guest in someone else’s house. That’s true to some extent. I reached out for my notepad and put ink to paper before the suffocating emptiness and hollowness consumed me.

Chapter 2 – Dad

“Son,” I called, only to be greeted by silence. These past 13 months have been hard on the both of us. I am ashamed to say that I slipped back into old habits, and now the smell of beer is lingering in the house.
“Son,” I called once more. This is odd, during my coping, he often made dinner, after school, At first it was bachelor steak (essentially cereal, no milk). Then he moved on to sandwiches and instant food as well as takeout. Half the time I ended up passed out on the couch, to wake up and stumble off to the bathroom. As I walked towards my son’s bedroom, I thought this was highly unusual behavior from him. First, I get a call from the school saying that he skipped school, and this. Silence. Agonising silence. Smothering silence.

A letter sticky-taped to the front of Rhyidan’s door, address to me. With a trembling hand reaching out, ripping in off the door. It read:

______________________________________________________________________
dear dad,
Just know that I will always love and please don’t try to find me. You will make this harder than it should be. please look after breezy.

Au revoir.
rhydian

______________________________________________________________________

Oh my god. He is going to kill himself. I clumsily ran down the hall in terror. My hands are trembling even worse now. My fingers dialled triple zero frantically.

“Hello, how can I help you?” said a youthful and clearly bored woman.
“Yes, I need the police. My 17 year old son, ran away from home, and left what seems like a suicide note.”
“Right. What is your name and address?” Her voice made it out that she is still bored. “My name is Matthew J. Wolf, and me and son live at 23rd A Modish Drive,”
“Okay…,” She said with a slight chuckle. Seriously, what is her problem? I tell her that my son might have tried to kill himself, and she chuckles. Chuckles! The nerve of people these days.
“Okay well sit tight, I will send a detective, maybe Ryan – she said more to herself- . Stay on the line in case any trouble comes up.”
“Okay.”
I did exactly that. I sat down on the couch with my head in my hands. I sat and I waited. Waited to wake up from the nightmare. Waited for my son to come home like this never happened. Waited for a knock on the door. Waited for anything.

Chapter 3 – Ryan

I set the phone on the receiver. This is bound to be another boring day. Or perhaps an interesting one. At this rate, I will be a real detective when I am in my hundreds, so in about eighty years. I got out of the spinny chair, and mentally prepared myself for the no doubt grieving family. I did not prepare myself enough for this disappearance.

. . .

I knocked on the wooden door of the house. I was dressed in my uniform, and had my satchel, to bag any evidence or note anything down. That was very unlikely, but best to be prepared. I doubt I would even need to do anything seeing as; 99% of teen runaways choose to return home at some point after; even if they have chosen to leave the state, where they ran away from. Apparently, 70% of teen runaways will return home within the first 24 hours, of being missing.

“Come in,” said a strangled voice that belonged to a broken man. The door creaked as I pushed it open. The house seemed empty and sucked out of life. I think I understand the kid a little bit better. Everything was in boxes and covered an inch thick layer of dust. There was no colour, no photos on the walls, just everything everywhere. The house stank of something musty or stale. Maybe stale beer? Matthew Jack Wolf sat on the old and worn out couch with his head in his hands.
“Hello?” I called out. No response.
“Hello? Mr Wolf?” I tried again. The man finally looked up and spotted me. He looked like he found a glimmer of hope and then lost it again when he saw how young I was. Not another one. He gestured to me to sit on the chair opposite him. I sat gratefully. This was going to be an interesting conversation.
“Mr Wolf? My name is Ryan Greene. I am the detective on your son’s disappearance.”
“First off, call me Matt. Second, are you a real detective?”
“Well Matt, I am a junior detective.”

“Okay. Can you find my son?”
“I will do my best.”
“I am assuming you want to see the letter and his room.” A statement not a question.
“That would be a great help thanks.”
He handed me a piece of paper with a terrible scrawl all over. Like the person writing the letter on a bus in the middle of a 7.9 categorised earthquake. I read over the short note. I could understand his worry. It seemed like a suicide note but it wasn’t. I know one when I see one.

“Good news; this isn’t a suicide note, Mr Wolf,”

“How do you know?”
“I read a lot of suicide notes over the years. Your son just ran away. Now he might have left some hints as to where in his room. Can I go to his room please? Oh and can I hold on to this?” I gestured to the letter in my hand.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”
He guided me to his son’s room, which matched the rest of the house’s gloom. Blank walls, black and white bed, inch layer of dust everywhere, more boxes.
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen, turning eighteen on the 17th of June,”

“That is in ten days.” So I have ten days before he turns eighteen, and I get reassigned. No one technically cares about missing eighteen year olds. Minors take priority. I need to find this kid, fast. I place the letter in an evidence bag and pocket it. Okay. Facts: this seventeen year old kid ran away from home ten days before his birthday. His name is Rhydian Wolf. His mother is dead. He is the school photographer and has good grades, so a smart kid and a good son, meaning; he probably left two trails. One false trail to lead the police astray and one that he actually followed. If we found both we wouldn’t know which one to follow and would spend too much time deciding.

His laptop was still on his desk. I lifted the screen of the laptop, to find it needed a password. Now this is a smart boy, so it would be something sentimental to him. Maybe there is a clue around here? Hence the hunt begins.

. . .

I turn around in a full circle to figure out what I am missing. Rhydian is smart, no doubt. I can probably rule out; searching under the bed or pillows. Too dumb and not at all like the kid. So maybe in a book or a secret compartment. Yeah that is probably it. Lets get searching.

. . .

Three hours later, and no luck or clue. I have searched through every book this kid has. This kid needs about ten libraries. I have also listened to every wall and the door frame. I plopped onto his soft and comfy bed and wondered where I hadn’t looked. I looked around once more, and found myself looking at his bedside table. Or more specifically what was on his bedside table. A photo of him and his mother at dusk on the beach. The framed photo looked out of place. Everything else was either packed away or monochrome. This was in full colour. It stuck out like a sore thumb.

I reached for it fully expecting it to be a hallucination caused by food deprivation. The picture wasn’t a hallucination. I flip the frame over and remove the backboard from the frame. There was more than just a picture. There was another picture and postcard and a chain necklace with a green stone heart pendant. The picture looked pretty old. It was a wedding photo of Rhydian’s parents. They looked so happy. The necklace probably belonged to his mother. I flipped the postcard to the back and found two words; ‘Will you?’. Huh. Will he, what? Maybe it is time to look his mother up.

. . .

I flipped through all the evidence, files and photos I had at my disposal, desperately to make a link. I had even pulled everything I could about the family.

Ring!

I picked my phone, and realised it was the guys calling about the death certificate of the mother that I had asked for.

“Hello … yes … wait really? Are you sure … interesting … okay. Thank you.”

I examined the note once more, and muttered under my breath “Very clever, kid. Very clever indeed.”

Chapter 5 – Rhydian

I sat in the shade of my umbrella on a white sand beach on the coast of Fuji. The swells are awesome for a pro surfer like me. A man not much older than me, came over.

“Rhydian, right?”

“Yup! Who are you?”

“Name is Ryan,” he gestured to surfboard to my side “didn’t know you surfed,”

“Yeah, my mum taught me. It is time to go home isn’t it,”

“Yeah, kid. Rhydian…” he faltered “I need to tell you something about your mother.”

“Yeah, okay.” I replied as I got up.

He spoke but the words didn’t register. They went through one ear and out the other.

My attention was fixated on a woman on the beach with her boyfriend. She looked awfully familiar. I had seen her a couple of times before on the beach. The same beach from the postcard. Then I recognised her as she turned towards me.

“Mom!?”

. . .

The three of us were sitting in the shade. My mom, who apparently has risen from the dead, Ryan the police officer who found me and myself. We are an odd bunch indeed.

“Mom, I have a lot of questions!”

“I know son. I thought you would,” she said with weary voice

Ryan just watched us in silence not wanting to intrude in this delicate matter. I don’t blame him either.

“How about this; I answer all your questions, after we go for a surf?”

“Fine by me,”

Together we walked, surf boards in hand towards the ocean waves.