I gently scooped up the pureed vegetables that seeped out of your mouth and ran down your chin. The muslin tucked into your t-shirt was soaked with drool. You waved your hand uncoordinatedly trying to grab the plastic spoon. “No my beautiful boy”, I gently chided. “Let Mummy do it”.
I loved you so fiercely. Had that not been enough? Why had you felt such a desperate need to follow the crowd? The adverse reaction to drugs you had taken at a party had left you, at the age of 22, unable to explain.
I cry for you, and myself.
Written for The Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt.