“You’ll get used to it.”

She never did.

Never.

When her husband heard, he did what was becoming more common: he fucked off.

Permanently.

Then the legion of social workers, with the Gestapo suggestions, “Give him up for adoption.”

Right.

They were just lining up to grab a child with DS. Ten grand bought them a cherubic dote from Russia or the third world. Tess was brief in her response to the suggestions.

“Fuck off.”

She raised Tom with every ounce of spirit and guts she had. Got him through school, then a job in a warehouse. Sometimes, the Gods there be cut a poor bitch some slack, not much but a thread. The lads in the warehouse were all from Tess’s neighborhood, Bohermore, one of the few real communities in the city. They watched out for him. He began as a messenger boy, then over the years, thanks to the lads, he learned to drive a forklift and that was one shit proud day for all.

Not to mention the extra few euros it brought into their home. Tom was tall, unusual for his condition, with dark hair, the eyes of a fawn, and the nature of an angel. The day he got to drive the forklift, he literally ran home to tell his mum, shouting, “Mum…Mum, I got me license, I can drive the big machine.”

She wiped her tears away, said,

“So, takeaway curry tonight and your favorite movie.”

“ Die Hard Th ree.”

If only she knew how ominous that was.

Truth to tell, Tom would watch anything with Bruce Willis. Tess watched him as he watched the movie, wondering if he thought he was Bruce Willis?

Their life wasn’t exactly easy but they relished what they had, primarily each other.

Friday evening, Tom got his wages, and had his ritual in place. Go to Holland’s shop, be polite to Mary, buy the big box of Dairy Milk for his mum, and then walk home.