Kris tossed and turned in bed. She'd had the worst day. When she had picked up Tim from daycare, she had found that he had somehow contracted the flu. His constant nasally snoring was keeping her awake and disturbing her.
She rose from bed and went into the bathroom, grabbing the dehumidifier and filling it with hot water. She had to use her muscles when she carried it into the almost nine-year-old's room. He was sound asleep so she tiptoed as quietly as she possibly could over to the one outlet in his room. She plugged in the frog-shaped object and it began to steam almost immediately.
She walked over to where he was sleeping and pulled up his Spiderman comforter, which had been curled around his feet from a very fitful sleep. She smoothed his thick brown hair, which, like the bedspread, had been tousled in his sleep. His eyelids moved, so he must have been dreaming. Kris wondered for a fleeting second if he was dreaming about his father, even though he had never seen the man.
To Kris, he was dead. She had mourned, was still mourning. She would find herself in bed at night, thinking of the mistakes she had made. Thinking of that horrible day when he had left. She shook her head, trying to shake out the thoughts.
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at her concerned. God, he looks just like him, Kris thought sadly. She could hardly ever meet his eyes because he looked so much like his father, sounded like him too, even thought he was only eight and a half.
"Mom?" Tim asked Kris questioningly, through his stuffed nose.
"Go back to sleep, honey. You need your sleep right now," Kris said smoothing his beautifully soft hair.
He yawned and blinked his eyes a few times, finally closing them and falling back asleep. Kris traveled back to her bedroom and crawled back under the covers. Eight years, she thought. Eight years and I'm still alive.