The boy was trying to run witout falling. He had flatfoot and weak muscles. The strain of the overwhelming desire to run and play had made him sweat.
She watched him silently, numbly. My son. She remembered the thrill of his first step in her womb. The seed had sprouted. That was seven years ago. The never fading memories of the exultation and agony of motherhood. The everlasting anguish of a mother who knows her only child cannot be fully normal.
The boy fell down on the lawn, picked himself up bravely and continued running.
My son, she thought. Be brave, be ready to be alone.