“Mama!”
He is on her sticky-fingered, weaving into the finest wisps at her nape and yanking as he burrows, breathes deep, knees her in the bladder. She is frozen – unable to react, to hold him close, to run her hand over the downy soft and feel the slight depression on his skull, because it isn’t there.
He jerks up like a rabbit perked on her scent, but only to reveal an impish beam, clutch up handfuls of T-shirt and bra straps, lean back like a daredevil. His eyes are big and green and he is perfect in every way except one: this is not her son.
When she speaks, it is a voice fallen into disuse.
“Who are you, then?” It sounds harsh to her ears, but he roars in laughter.
“Silly Mama!”
He says this like it is a game they play, releasing her straps with a snap-snap and jungle-gymming across to sit, to scroll her phone like any other Wednesday at the park.
She looks around, sure that Real Mama is frantic and nearby, as she had been. But there is no one else, and he seems content here with his Imposter Mama and the peanut-free purse snacks she still packs. Unless, maybe, she is mistaken. Unless she is Real Mama and this is her jerking blessedly awake from a terrible, terrible dream. She warms to the idea. Not brown eyes, green. Not gone, but right here.
Not Imposter Mama: Real Mama.
Erin Bondo grew up in rural Ontario, Canada on the unceded and unsurrendered territory of the Anishinabek and now lives in Scotland. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and placed or listed in a number of competitions, including the Bridport Prize, Bath Flash Fiction Award and Welkin Prize. She has work published or forthcoming with Kelp Journal’s The Wave, SEXTET, WestWord, NFFD, Flash Fiction Festival, and others. Find her on Bluesky @erinbondo.com