I can just about manage to stay calm as long as I think about the robber as “the problem,” as “packages” and “remains.” Abstract words that have nothing to do with a human being. But they’re still the remains of a person. A boy, for that matter. One who made bad choices. Choices he never got the chance to put right and that his parents were unable to protect him from.

What was his relationship like with his mother? Is she still alive? Looking for her son? Lying awake at night, just like I am?

I also wonder what kind of person he was, and if he often carried out robberies like this. Was he the kind of boy you see on news reports, waving a gun around in a gas station? A boy who beat people up on the street at night, just for kicks? Or was he so desperate—so troubled for whatever reason—that a violent robbery seemed like the only way out? I’m pretty sure he’d been using drugs. Cocaine, most likely.

Did his mother have any idea what her son was up to?

Parents always have a rosier view of their children than the rest of the world, and always stand up for them. You love your children with all your heart—a selfless love that permeates your blood, your DNA, your whole being. Even if they make bad choices and hurt other people in the process. And even if your own baby lies, cheats, and steals.

I know that now, after what Sara did.

Love persists. The umbilical cord may be cut immediately after birth, but there is always another one. You can’t see it, but you can definitely feel it. And it tugs at you forever, Mother. Forever.

Because of what I did, a mother will never know what happened to her son. She can’t even bury him. I took that away from her.

Werner says it’s pointless to think about it or to talk about it, that it won’t change anything. And he’s right. It’s irreversible. Just like your death, and Father’s. I had to get through that, and I’ll get through this too.

I need to try and sleep now, Mother.

I love you.

I miss you terribly.

Helen

Friday

Friday

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