On the way home they stopped at the playground beside an imposing church. The city constantly humbled her, reminding her at every opportunity that people had been there before, waving its hands around in excitement about its incredible history. It was irritating. Out of his schoolbag the boy took out a drawing of a ghost, the eyes far apart, in opposite hemispheres. Squiggles representing horror. She wasn’t sure if he was proud of it.

‘That’s a beautiful picture,’ she said, cautiously.

‘No, it’s not.’

‘No,’ she agreed, laughing, ‘it’s not.’

She sat on the wooden bench, her breath rippling out in stubborn, icy waves in front of her. She watched him climbing, tried to spot any trace of athletic talent. Then she watched for what she was told to watch for – any signs of trauma, an impulse toward sadness.

She never socialised with the other mothers. It was ridiculous, her attitude problem resurfacing. She felt they knew she had been coerced at the last minute, didn’t have the correct paperwork. She had never held him as a baby, never heard him cry, a cooing from another world. She once listened to sounds of babies crying and decided which one he would have sounded most like. It was a high-pitched, argumentative wailing. She went on the websites with the mothers of newborns, introduced herself. There were some genuine points of interest but nothing to help with a nine year old.

‘Are you a troublemaker?’ she asked when he, out of breath, sat down.

‘No.’

‘That’s what troublemakers say.’ She rested her arm behind him. ‘Tell me about running.’

‘It’s stupid.’

‘I like stupid things.’

‘You like stupid things?’

‘Yeah, I like stupid things,’ she said loudly, finding freedom in it. ‘That’s why they kicked me out of college.’

‘You got kicked out?’

‘I kicked myself out. But it was the same thing. Tell me.’

It was fun, he explained, it was good, but to be the best you had to keep practicing and what was the point? It was a version of the argument she had with herself daily. She wanted to encourage him but what was she supposed to do? Tell him, like a dog, to sit down, stand up, kneel? She had no authority. Why was she even here? What did she want from it all – a medal?

On the Metro, at the last stop, she asked him outright. ‘Why did you hit that boy?’

‘The medal,’ he said simply.

On the front door she stuck the picture of the ghost and drew a large, deliberate X.

That night, in bed, her husband described his day and she listened. He was in love with the city, wandered around in a loving daze. The distance was good for him and, although his work was difficult, obscure, he was now a medium shade of grey, instead of a deep shade.

‘How did you know it would be right?’ he asked.

‘I know everything.’

*