Discharged from the hospital, home in his own bed and alert to daily life once more, Derek was delighted to have his mother to himself. By the time he awoke to the sun’s rays sloping through his bedroom window and the ache in his joints duller than it had been the night before, his father and siblings had left for the day. As the third born of four, he wasn’t accustomed to a tranquil house or the full attention of a parent. His mother, tearfully grateful to see her son regaining his health, clucked about and cossetted him. She trotted to his bedside, delivering whatever he desired whenever he called. She fed him, held cups of juice to his lips and read to him. When he needed (or demanded) to be bathed, she squandered her favourite bubble soap, turned the tub into a mountainous pool of perfumed foam, and stood by as he soaked, adding hot water at his command.

Mother Mackenzie charmed him with her own stories about a superhero called “Derek the Strongest.” She also snuck a television set into his bedroom during the day, a treat made more exhilarating because his father believed that watching television from bed was almost as abhorrent a deed as discussing money in company. Derek basked in the adoration and servitude of his mother. He never felt fonder of her than he did when she, her face puce from the effort, heaved the television set back to the study before the others returned each afternoon. But, as much as he enjoyed his mother’s undivided attention, Derek soon took it for granted. It was, however, the double loss that he suffered at the time that he would feel more keenly in years to come.

His father was a stern, quiet man who, raised by elderly parents, believed children should be infrequently seen and even more rarely heard. As such, Jock Mackenzie wasn’t reared to converse or reveal much about himself to others. In fact, he seldom made known his emotions. However, when he witnessed his third born (and second son) mewing in agony and repeatedly losing consciousness while a group of doctors huddled around his bed muttering their bafflement, Jock was moved. So much so that it had required several gulps to dislodge the lump in his throat.

Derek’s mother spent more time at the hospital than at home during the weeks that followed. When he was with her during that time, Jock watched wordlessly as his wife paced the room, squeezing the blood from her fingers and fretting about the boy as if no one else existed. Her other children took care of one another and Jock took care of himself.

For a while, when Derek was home convalescing, Jock continued his silent surveillance. He knew how close they’d come to losing their son and was pleased the boy was on the mend. He needed his mother.