He limps upstairs to the apartment, glove in hand, wincing. He braces himself as he opens the door for his mother's cry of dismay.
"Steven?" she calls from the kitchen as he opens the door. "Did you get the mail?"
"Yes, Ma. I've got it here."
"Take your shoes off and bring it me," she calls from the kitchen. She's making her special spaghetti- he can smell the sauce simmering. He hangs up his coat and removes his shoes, and puts his glove on its hook before taking a deep breath and moving into the kitchen. He puts the mail on the table, trying to ignore the red URGENT stamped on the bill envelopes.
"Thank you, Ste-" His mother turns around and gasps. "Oh, Stevie."
"It's not that bad, Ma," he tries.
"Don't lie to me," she scolds, tilting his head and gently prodding at the still-developing bruises. "Oh, Stevie," she sighs again. "Let me get the peroxide."
She guides him into a chair and starts to clean the cuts on his cheeks and knuckles. "Was it the Merrit boy again?" she asks.
"No."
"I wish you wouldn't get into so many fights, Steven."
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry."
"You're a good boy." She pauses and looks him in the eye. "Were you trying to help?"
"Yes."
She squeezes his hand. "You're a good boy," she repeats. "I'm very proud of you."
He looks at the bill envelopes. She catches his eye. "Steven," she says sharply. "I don't want to start that again."
"But Ma, I'm not any help in school."
"I don't need my son to support me," she snaps. "You need an education. With your grades you could get a scholarship and go to college."
"But you're sick, Mom. You don't need to be working all day."
"I'm fine!" she denies, punctuated by a cough. "Now, the spaghetti's ready. Are you hungry, Stevie?"
He smiles at her, his tiny, determined mother. "Famished."