My Real Mother

"My mother's here," said Anthony.

I'd never seen him so happy.

You mean your grandmother? I asked. She'd been up to the school several times, especially after he'd gotten in trouble. See, there was that incident when I caught him with the survival knife in his bookbag. Apparently he'd felt it necessary to carry it for protection.

With the way he got picked on every day, I could understand why.

"No. My mother's here," he said again. "My real mother."

I wondered briefly if it were possible to spontaneously combust from sheer joy.

"She's in the office," he said. "She's waiting for me."

Can I meet her?

"No," he said. "She can't stay. I just wanted to tell you she's here. My mother's here. My real mother." He grinned one last time and ran out of the classroom.

For half a minute I was tempted to follow him, tempted to find her in the office and ask her where the hell she'd been. But I didn't. Anthony deserved this moment.

Later, when he was older, he'd ask her that question himself. For now, I could only hope that he' be satisfied with her answer.