Great childhood.
All Michael’s early memories were happy ones.
His mom had cared for him twenty-four/seven until he was old enough to go to kindergarten, then taken part-time work in sales for a fashion store in Wayland Square in Providence. Michael could not recall a time when he had not felt proud to have her for his mother, simply accepting of the fact that his father was not in his life. Emily had told him when he was twelve that if he wanted to look his dad up when he was older, she would not stand in his way. Michael had looked into her blue eyes and doubted that he’d ever want any more parent than her.
She’d waited until he was fourteen before telling him about his Shiloh family history, and hearing that his grandfather had been accused of killing a child had packed quite a punch, though Emily had said she didn’t think that Donald Cromwell had been guilty.
‘My dad swore to me on my life that he was innocent, and I believed him. But no one else did, and there was no way of proving it either way, not once he’d died.’
‘Killed himself,’ Michael had said.
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you think he did that if he wasn’t guilty?’
‘I guess because no one believed him,’ Emily had said.
‘Except you,’ Michael had reminded her.
‘Yes,’ she’d said.
When Michael had asked if she would take him to meet his grandmother, Emily said that it might be distressing, but Michael insisted he wanted to go.
The encounter had been sad and boring; just an old lady in a chair who didn’t recognize his mom or care a damn who he was. And after, since they were near Shiloh, they’d gone together to the village, and Emily had shown him the house where she’d lived, and the site of the old school, the building now converted into an inn. He’d found her suddenly very bleak, which had troubled him, partly because the trip had been his idea.
She’d gotten drunk that night for the first time since her pregnancy.
The first time Michael had seen his mom in a less-than-perfect light.
Having the best mom in the world could give a kid unrealistic expectations.
Bound to crash sometime.
It had bothered him, for sure, even scared him, but Emily had been sober the next morning, and ashamed, and he’d told her he understood, even though he had not, at least not entirely, but then they’d both gotten over it and had gone on with their good, happy life.
No crash yet.
That was still to come.