"Is that it then?" Ricky asked. "You’re just— you’re never going to look at me again? Speak to me? Anything?" He stood up abruptly, his chair crashing onto  the floor behind him. "Look at me!" Her eyes stayed on her book. He was growing desperate. Pathetic, even. He was twelve, and he could feel his childhood slipping away. He could feel his mother slipping away from him. "I’m your son! I— I’m still your son, Mum. Nothing— I haven’t changed. I’m still Ricky." He went to reach for her hand, and she pulled away. It felt like a thousand daggers went right to his heart, watching her pull away. He scrunched up his face in an attempt not to sob, because he wouldn’t let her see him cry.