Nilem opened his eyes. He had the whole weekend ahead of him. The night had been long, restful, and full of dreams. He rejoiced—he loved his imagination. More than his mother. At this cynical thought, he smiled.

  He had the whole day ahead to laze around, daydream, imagine, live.

  It was his stomach that pushed him out of bed, plunging him directly into the cold atmosphere of the house. He got dressed without bothering to take off his pajamas under his sweater and pants. He took his daily glass of fruit juice and looked out the window. It was raining. Great. Just great.

  The passersby bustled about, always in a hurry for who knew what, as if a sword would strike them down if they didn’t optimize every moment. In truth, Nilem understood them. He was like that at school too—it was the system’s fault, as his father often said. You had to rush, not get in the way, not take one step too many or to the side. His father would always repeat this phrase:

  - It’s when you understand what surrounds you and realize how trapped you are that you begin to become free. To play with those constraints, to play with philosophy, to play with the rules, to live.

  Now, this weekend, Nilem felt free. He spun around, like performing a dance step, and ended up back in his room.

  His father.

  He missed him.

  With his arms raised toward the ceiling, his head straight, he lifted himself onto his tiptoes and let himself fall onto his mattress.

  His father.

  Nilem closed his eyes.

  …

  He was leaving class. With his rolling backpack folded and strapped to his back, sticking out a few centimeters on each side of his body, Nilem walked, smiling, toward the school exit. He knew he was expected.

  He was talking with a friend of his named Yseulte. Bright-eyed, with short, curly brown hair, he was one of Nilem’s best friends. They played with spinning tops together. As they were engaged in an animated discussion, Nilem heard a familiar voice reach his ears:

  - I'm here!

  It was his father, making large gestures with his arms. He signaled for him to hurry by quickly moving his forearm toward himself. Nilem didn’t know where this gesture came from or why people did it, but after quickly saying goodbye to his friend, he ran off to join him on the other side of the street.

  Once at his side, his father ruffled his hair and asked if he’d had a good day. After a brief exchange of small talk, Nilem sat in the front passenger seat. He wasn’t normally allowed, but his father gave him this freedom, so he never let it slip away. Before heading home, they had to stop to buy some bread.

  After this small errand, they pushed open the front door. His mother was there, standing in the living room with her hands on her hips. Nilem smiled and threw himself into her arms. His father greeted her with a kiss as well. Nilem was especially happy because tonight was soccer practice! Training with his friends, their little after-school ritual a few times a week. He tossed his bag onto his bed, changed clothes, and came out of his room, cleats in hand.

  - I'm ready!

  His mother came closer to him and, pulling his cheek slightly, replied:

  - You have to snack first so you can be in shape.

  As she headed toward the kitchen, his mother ran her hand through his hair. Nilem didn’t like that—she was often too tactile with him, always finding an excuse to touch him. But Nilem said nothing; she was his mother, and it was probably her way of showing love. And besides, she was even worse with his father—constantly hugging him, caressing him… As if they were sixteen years old and experiencing their first love.

  Though, it depended on the days. Sometimes, it was the complete opposite. His mother had always been like that—changing. His father had explained to him that she was bipolar. Nilem didn’t know what that meant—maybe it was in French? He thought that because his dad sometimes spoke that language when telling stories about his day.

  Once his stomach was full, they left for the football field, about five minutes away by car. As usual, his father dropped him off quickly, unable to park on the fast road in front of the field. He always said it was dangerous.

  That day, he didn’t remind him.

  He should have.

  The training session went particularly well. The coach had let them play a long match—almost an hour, which was extremely rare and highly appreciated by the team. Nilem even scored from a corner kick, earning praise from his teammates. After showering with his friends in an atmosphere of euphoria, Nilem was eager to get home.

  Standing at the gate of the field, facing the road, he saw his father’s car approaching.

  Without hesitation, Nilem started running toward it. Seeing him, his father also stepped forward, breaking into a run. The child, comforted by their shared excitement to see each other, sped up, oblivious to everything else around him.

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  He shouldn’t have.

  It was only a moment before Nilem realized. Too late. The sound of a car horn rang in his ears—he had made a huge mistake. His excitement had made him forget a simple rule: look left and right before crossing.

  Instead of a hug, Nilem felt his father tackle him, sending him flying several meters away—just in time to narrowly avoid the car, which, despite braking, couldn’t stop in time.

  Lying on his back, eyes wide open, breathless, Nilem gasped for air. Everything had happened too fast.

  He got up with difficulty. His breath caught even more.

  His father wasn’t there in front of him.

  With dazed eyes, he searched frantically around him.

  Then he saw him—lying on the road, several meters away. Nilem’s vision blurred, and he lost consciousness…

  …He woke up in a hospital bed. His mother was by his side, in tears. With just one look, he understood. She wasn’t crying for him.

  A void formed in his stomach. He closed his eyes. He felt like he was being sucked in, pulled into the bed, as if falling into an endless void. His head spun. His stomach ached. He felt like throwing up, the taste of blood in his mouth. His limbs were heavy, impossible to move.

  So this is what it feels like to lose a parent?

  So this is what it feels like to have caused his father’s death?

  At that thought, Nilem’s body convulsed, overtaken by uncontrollable spasms. It was his mother’s cold hand on his forearm that snapped him out of it. She whispered:

  - It’s not your fault. We’ll get through this.

  Oh right, she said that because Nilem had forgotten to mention that his mother didn’t have a job due to her mental illness.

  Everything happened so fast.

  Shortly after the funeral and after handling the administrative paperwork, his mother quickly decided to move—she couldn’t bear to live in a place that reminded her of him.

  So they changed cities. Nilem had to say goodbye to all his friends.

  Their new apartment was much smaller—only three rooms, two bedrooms, and a kitchen that doubled as a dining area. They ended up in a small village, too small to even have a cafeteria at his elementary school. His mother quickly found a job, though Nilem didn’t know where or what she did.

  Since his father’s death, his mother spoke to him less and less, eventually slipping into near silence. He felt guilty. Deep down, he knew this was his fault. His mother kept repeating that it wasn’t, that he had saved him, that it had been his father’s choice. If he had wanted to, he could have just let him get run over. But he didn’t—he made the choice.

  Every time his mother told him that, Nilem just shrugged. He wasn’t so sure.

  After all, wasn’t it a father’s duty to save his family? That’s what the cartoons they used to watch together always said. His dad always said that wasn’t true—that fathers weren’t there just to protect their families.

  But in the end, he had just proven the opposite.

  As if he hadn’t really meant to throw himself under the car instead of Nilem.

  The worst part was his mother’s state. Losing her crutch had made her lose balance. Her mood swings became more frequent, more sudden, more violent. She had found refuge in alcohol—it helped her stay in control.

  The further they got from his father’s death, the less his mother could manage herself. She seemed more and more lost, as if she didn’t know what she was doing in this life. She had placed all her hope in that relationship, having had a difficult childhood. Now, she had no more reference points, no more refuge, no more reasons to hold on to reality.

  "Drinking to forget" wasn’t just a throwaway phrase or a tasteless joke people made before pouring a glass. It was real.

  She drank to feel light, to feel as if she were in his arms again, floating closer to him, as if on a cloud.

  She drank at night, alone—meeting her son’s gaze in those moments was unbearable. It brought her crashing back to Earth.

  But he was there. Right there. Standing, hollow-faced, eyes vacant, looking at her as if she weren’t his mother.

  But she was.

  A half-mother. Half a parent.

  She hated that.

  And he knew it.

  She knew she was wrong.

  She knew it wasn’t his fault.

  But maybe, just a little bit, it was.

  Or maybe she was just lost.

  A vice was pressing against his head. Thinking about the whole story still unsettled him. He, too, had lost a reference point—a stability that now made him question his entire life. Nilem wasn’t like his mother; he would have made it through if only he were old enough.

  He dreamed of being grown-up—he couldn’t wait. He would finally be free, do as he pleased, go wherever he wanted, dream as much as his mind allowed, live somewhere else.

  To be honest, he didn’t know much about what his adult life would be like either.

  He smiled—his mother and he were just as lost as each other.

  …

  It was already late. Every time he got lost in his thoughts, time seemed to pass strangely fast. He figured it was maybe because there were so many details.

  The rest of the day passed more slowly. He quickly ate whatever he could find. Dinner, as usual, was accompanied by silence and the sound of his mother’s chewing.

  She didn’t even mention the incident from the night before—perhaps too ashamed. Talking about it would mean admitting she was aware of it.

  Diving into deep silence admitted nothing, just left the questions hanging.

  Nilem didn’t care; he didn’t want to talk about it either. He even wondered if he wasn’t more ashamed than his mother about what had happened. After all, he was the one responsible for his father’s death and, in turn, for everything that had happened since.

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  His mother, without paying him much attention, simply ordered him to go to bed, saying she would take care of the dishes.

  With his head down, Nilem closed the door behind him.

  This time, he didn’t have to wait long before hearing his mother’s sobs.

  Without hesitation, he slipped under his blanket.

  Tonight, he was sure of it—she wouldn’t come.

  He fell asleep.