Lucky

There once was a son who lived alone with his mother.

Every morning, the mother went into his room and woke him, saying, “Wipe the sleep from your eyes, my little plum, for today you’re the luckiest boy in the whole world. Do you know why?”

“Because I’m the slowest, weakest, dumbest boy in the world,” the son answered with a yawn. “And none of that matters, because you’re my mom.”

“That’s right.” The mother smiled warmly. “Without me you’d be nothing. But because I will always be here, you never need worry.”

At this, the boy grinned, wide and easy.

As the years passed, the boy grew into a young man, still more child than adult, and their routine remained much the same.

Every morning, the mother told her son how lucky he was, and every morning he believed it, because he loved her. Even as her hair greyed and her skin wrinkled like rotting fruit, the son lived without fear of the inevitable day.

Then a morning came, different from all the rest.

The son awoke to a quiet room in a quiet house, and no one was there to tell him how lucky he finally was. Ω