“Would you like some eggs for breakfast?” my mother asks me for the second week in a row. Seriously, the second week. I study her for a few minutes, in awe of the progress she’s made.

The day after I found her almost lifeless body on the bathroom floor, she apologized to me.

She cried.

She hugged me.

She was angry at herself.

She finally understood what she was doing to us, and while I know that must’ve been a terrible realization, it’s what she needed. Near-death experiences tend to give people the wakeup call they need.

“I’m good, thank you,” I tell her.

“Are you sure? You gotta make sure you’re eating right for football,” she tells me.

I look at Ethan, who’s happily eating his scrambled eggs and playing around with his iPod. Although he may not know all the terrible things that have happened, even he can feel that the air is lighter—that we’re all happier.

“I’m not on the football team anymore,” I tell her, watching her expression fall.

She nods to herself. “It’s my fault, right?”

I look over at Ethan. “No,” I tell her, but we both know that’s a lie.

She rounds the kitchen table, playing with my hair like she did when I was six-years-old. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But you’re better now.” And she is. She hasn’t been doing drugs, she’s been going to group meetings and Richard hasn’t been by. I think things are finally starting to look up for our family. Who would’ve thought she needed to hit rock bottom before she pushed herself up?

She kisses the top of Ethan’s head in the most motherly gesture I’ve seen in years. “Well, since I’m better now, how about you go back to playing football?” she asks her eyes lighting up.

I shake the idea away. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Do you love it?” she asks and I nod. “Then try it again. I’m sure the coach would let you play. Are you any…” She stops herself before finishing the sentence. She wouldn’t know if I’m any good at football because she’s never been to any of my games. When I was younger, it was my dad that played with me and taught me but, even then, she never showed up.

“I’ll talk to Coach,” I answer. I don’t want her to be sad. I don’t want her to think about her failures, not when she’s doing so well, not when Ethan finally has a mother who’s paying attention to him.

“Great! Let me know what he says,” she says eagerly. “Are you ready, kiddo?” she asks Ethan.

“Ready for what?” Ethan asks, finally tearing his eyes from his toy.

“School? We gotta get going!” she says, taking the empty plates from the table.

Ethan looks at me then back at Mom. “Aron usually takes me to school…”

“Yeah, I don’t mind taking him,” I echo. That’s sort of been my role for a while and I’ll admit it feels odd to be letting her take over. Despite how much progress she’s made, I should still be cautious.

“How about you take Ethan and I pick him up?” she suggests and while I want to do both, I decide to give her a chance.