his father wasn't home.

he was probably out with his secretary,

again.

leaving him utterly alone in the large house.

alone with nothing but the memories and photographs of his mother, the most beautiful woman he had even known.

even after his father beat her, she would still always find a way to smile at him and softly sing sweet songs to him, so he could sleep easier.

he had been convinced she was an angel when she was younger, which always made her give him that dainty laugh of hers. she always seemed so young when she laughed like that.

that laugh...he hadn't heard her laugh like that in months before her death, no matter what he did.

maybe that should have been his first clue.

all of her laughs had been forced, and her smiles had been thin and weak.

why hadn't he noticed that earlier?

he had been so busy stressing over football and popularity, had he been so blind to not notice how much pain his mother was in?

it was his fault then.

it was all his fault.

he should have been there for his mother, like he promised he would be when he was little.

he had promised.

and he had broken that promise, to the one woman who meant everything to him.

to his mother.