Scott was magnificent. Ripped, as the young say. Nothing like his skinny and dissolute father, where ever he might be. He'd re-appeared just once, years back, to see if he could tap the wealth of his famous son. But Scott would have none of it. I'd never been so proud. Until now.
'Here's some sweet tea, you want anything else, just call.'
'Some more biscuits?'
'Mom, no more biscuits, or cake, I'm fine, ok?'
The irritation in his voice hurt, but it was the defeat in his face that tore my heart out.
'Sorry, mom. For everything.'
I sat beside him on the bed and took his hand. I could barely feel him squeeze in return, fingers boney, skin as slack as my own. There wasn't anything more to say. Perhaps I would have judged, disapproved. And of course, I should have known. Should have guessed. Too busy working on my manuscripts to notice or care. I was as good as his no-good Dad.
Then he smiled. And I recognized that smile, it shone down from every movie poster, every photo. He was still with me.
'Hey mom, read me some of your latest …'
We both understood.
I began the final chapter.
(200 word flash story [plus or minus 10] inspired by a photo and word prompt on the blogFlashFriday!Each week you have to write a story based on a photo and word prompt within the day. This is my first effort and compared to the others, not really good enough. It's challenging though, and I need that stick poking into me).