After that, I went to his room more often. I am no longer waiting to be invited as usual. Looks like we overlooked that. Whenever I had to go upstairs, I would knock on his door and drop in to listen to a song or two. I never lingered there for too long. One night, when I knocked on the door, I discovered a movement inside. No one answered my knock. I think I can hear them whispering something to each other. Then Jonathan said, “Mom in.” As soon as I walked in, I smelled the sweet smell of cigarette smoke. The room is tinged with blue. Bobby stood as still as heaven, and Jonathan sat in his familiar spot by the fireplace. Bobby said, “Um, Miss Glover?” Jonathan said in a calm, almost sweet voice: “Come in, Mom. Let’s take a breather.” It held out a smoldering self-rolled cigarette towards me. I hesitated at the door. For a long time, I no longer knew who I was, just dumbfounded, bewildered, indifferently watching as my son held out a dirty rolled cigarette. The cigarette butts glowed orange in the dim glow of the baseball-shaped table lamp I bought him for when he was seven.
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