"His mother saw it mothers are like that."
Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red
12th of Ash, Year 107 AS
Urs messily cut into a lopsided stack of pancakes drowned in a brown, sticky syrup. He stabbed his fork at the fluffy bits eagerly, scrapping it against the plate. His mother winced at the sound, but her smile didn't falter.
He watched her watch him tear the rest of his breakfast apart into bite-sized pieces.
"Where are my presents?"
"You're eating them," her smile twisted into something else.
Urs frowned. "Liar." He poured more syrup. He looked around the kitchen. The white tiled floor. The skillet covered with melted butter. His mother in a pink and purple dressing gown, wearing a know-it-all smirk. "Liar," he said again, between mouthfuls of pancake that he didn't chew.
"Just because you said it twice doesn't mean it's true."
He swallowed, his throat dry. "Liar."
She sighed, "Do you want any juice?"
Urs shook his head, "I want my presents."
His mother shrugged as she walked to the icebox and pulled out a bottle of milk. She poured a glass. "We're out of juice anyway," she announced, turning around on her heel, back to the table, back to him, milk in hand.
He drank it, slowly, trying to hold his frown as his mother watched him finish the milk. "Done," he said, wiping his mouth with his pajama sleeve. "Where's Dad?"
"With your grandmother."
"Where's Gram?"
She smiled wildly.
"Don't say --,"
"With your father."
Urs groaned, dramatically. He sat still for a moment, before pushing his plate away from him to her. He watched her pick up the fork and eat his leftovers. "I'll run away if you don't give me my presents."
"Oh?"
"I'll run away and I'll never come back. I'm serious."
She smiled at him, the plate empty now.
"You don't believe me."
His mother's smile softened around the corners. "No," she said, "But maybe next time I will."