Page 1 of Sorry, We're Closed

One

Sawyer

I can’t sleep again. My day has been no different to any other; my alarm blaring at the crack of dawn and reminding me of my day long shift in the family café, returning to this home where I follow my mother’s trail cleaning every bottle she leaves behind while once again pleading and begging for her forgiveness for my actions years ago, and then returning to my duvet cocoon at the earliest time which society deems it acceptable. Yet somehow, I still can’t sleep.

I know why I can’t sleep, but I refuse to admit that for seven years today, since that thirteen-year-old boy decided to speak out, I have been fighting a losing battle at every moment I have, in the hopes of regaining any form of love and appreciation from my mother. Every time my eyes try to finally soothe me to sleep, that dreaded day comes flooding back to me in the form of beaded sweat across my body and my lungs growing shallow.

I sit up at the dining table, the paint flaking chairs creaking their wooden bones with every movement of my body, waiting for the perfect moment to become kindling. The mid-morning sun blesses a golden glow over our family home as my mother's distant yet sweet singing floats from the kitchen. She’s preparing her Sunday roast, which was always my favourite time of the week. The smell of her succulent cooking, especially her chicken, oh her chicken, was divine. My mouth fills at the thought that in just a few hours’ time, as soon as we come back through our front door from church, I will help my mother serve what feels like a banquet of potatoes; vegetables, stuffing, Yorkshire puddings, gravy, that amazing chicken and we will sit around the table as a family.

She will sit on the left of my father, and I will sit on his right, and we will enjoy our family dinner. We will talk about school, work, my want for something fluffy walking around this home of ours which continuously gets met with "we'll think about it", how enthused everyone was at today's service, anything and everything.

"Darling, I'm going to check on your father. We need to leave soon.”

Mother dances by, her Sunday dress rippling baby blue waves of fabric, the waves cascading at her sides as a hand is placed so delicately on my shoulder and a kiss planted on my head. She always looks beautiful, but particularly on Sundays because she always wore this dress, which I loved. It hugged her waist yet opened into what I always thought looked like an upside-down flower, with its pleats as petals and her legs like a lily's stamens. A fitted bodice which met her chest and a slim silver chain which my father gifted to her last Christmas, laying gently around her neck.

Her auburn hair met the lining of the bodice perfectly, but sometimes she'd pull it into a tight bun which would sit on the top of her head, or a flowing ponytail filled with curls and waves trailing down her back. She would rarely wear makeup, but as she would always say, on this special day of the week she would treat herself to some mascara which drew your attention completely to her deep blue eyes, and some rose-tinted lip gloss which glistened as soon as it was graced by any light.

This was the staple Tracey Sombre which everyone recognised at our church, with her arm linked through my father's and her hand holding mine. We’re the picturesque family and soon, everyone in Tetherton, not just the Church goers, would know of the Sombre-Boser household as my parents celebrate the buying of their own business.

Every night since, they celebrated and cheered about how they finally did it, the champagne popping until they noticed the neighbourly stares paired with the friendly smiles and thought to reign it in slightly.

They are happy, and they want me to be a part of it, to join them at sixteen, to learn the business, thrive in it, take it over with a woman that I would one day love when they were too old to run it anymore. That's what they wanted.

Two pairs of footsteps descend the stairs alongside the harmony of laughing and humming, until my parents then appear and our muted grey walls suddenly shine brighter. My father’s arms wrap around Mother’s waist before dipping her close to the hardwood floor, kissing her from her forehead to her lips. He pulls her back to her feet, a smile forever growing over both of their faces as she waltzes her way back into the kitchen to make sure everything is roasting slowly and steady, ready for us when we return home.

"Come here, let me get a look at you, then! Yes, that’s my boy in his brand-new suit!"

I immediately rise to my feet and embrace my father. I’m only up to his chest, but we always say that one day, I'll be up there with him. He pats between my shoulder blades twice before pulling away and resting both his hands on my petite shoulders. He leans back on his heels, his eyes gazing down to my first pair of suit shoes, untied, up to my suit shirt, untucked, and then back to meet my eyes.

"Oh, I'm just so proud of you, son! I'll teach you how to tie those later."

My suit is far too big for me, but I wanted to look just like my father. I begged and pleaded for my parents to take me shopping and when they finally did, I made sure that I found that exact bronze suit with the golden buttons, because I only ever wanted to be like him.

I stroked my fingers across every lapel from top to bottom, I rolled my shoulders back and forth in every jacket I tried, I stared in the mirror and attempted the same dashing smile he did whenever he put his suit on because he knew that Mother would beam her beautiful, full smile up at him before planting a kiss on his cheek. He would feel confident and proud of himself, of her, of me, of his family. I wanted to be just like him.

“Come on you two, we're going to be running late if we don't leave soon. I'll go start the car and I want you both out there in five minutes.” She snaps her purse back together and walks past us both, blowing a kiss to my father and winking at me.

“Son! We cannot anger the lady of the manor, otherwise we'll be thrown in the stables with the horses tonight! Quick, sit yourself down!”

He claps his hands and kneels by my feet as I sit myself back at the dining table. He pulls my foot onto his knee and begins twisting, looping and pulling my laces.

“Your mother really is something special.”

“She is. She looks so pretty today.”

Father’s gaze leaves my shoes and meets my eyes. A smile grows across his face as he pats my shoulder twice. His hand doesn’t leave my shoulder.

“She loves you very much. More and more every day, we love you. We are so proud of how far you've come.”

A tear rolls down his face before he ducks his head into his chest as he pulls at his sleeve to wipe it away. He continues, “And one day, you will have this. You will have what your mother and I have. You will settle with an amazing, beautiful woman and you two will take over the business when we grow old, and you'll have a family of your own. Huh, here I am rambling on.”

He chuckles to himself as he begins on my second shoe.

“Um? What if there's a chance…” My voice trails off.

“A chance of what, son?”

“I love what you and Mother have.” I pause as I feel my mouth begin to dry and my throat tighten, but if anyone would understand me, it would be the man who raised me. “What if, instead of a beautiful woman like her, I wanted a handsome man like you?”

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