A Missing Mother

Like last time, something is wrong but i've read it so many bloody times i cant think anymore. I think its the pace but i don't know. Would be great if you could comment on it.

One

The woman in the photograph was staring back at him, her eyes full of joy. She had in her arms an angel faced baby boy, all wrapped in a white hospital blanket, its eyes closed and thin hair still stuck to the top of his head. It was the product of nine months of craving, pain and love, so delicate and defenseless. Despite the proud smile on her face the woman looked tired and old beyond her age, lying in her bed surrounded by cards and balloons of congratulations.

A tear escaped Adrian’s eye and flowed down his cheek as he studied the picture. He smoothed over the woman’s face with his thumb. “You didn’t tell me.” He said, looking up to the woman sitting next to him.

“I wanted to,” her voice trembled as she spoke quietly, barely loud enough to overcome the television a few feet away. “But how could I? I didn’t want to lose you. I still love you.” Her hand reached over and clutched his. Her palm was sweaty and moist against his as she squeezed tightly.

Adrian ripped his hand away, diverting his eyes away from hers for a second while he thought. He was swiftly back, scowling deeply in his brow. “That’s bullshit and you know it! You could have told me anytime you liked.”

A figure moved past the window opposite them behind the television, catching their eye. The postman, clutching a few envelopes in his hand, glanced through the window and waved, a beaming smile plastered on his middle aged face. This allowed a break in the argument, as if the two were scared of him hearing through the double glazed window. Only a few seconds later his face slid past the window again and he went back up the driveway, flicking through the next door’s post, content in his life, whistling.

This ended the short break the two had; Adrian sat with his hands cupped over his mouth, staring at the beige walls of the living room. The woman next to him hadn’t taken her eyes of him. She had opened her mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come out, stuck in her mind still swilling around for the perfect recipe.

“Please Adrian just listen to me.” She now pleaded, edging closer to him along the sofa. “I’m still your mother.”

He turned to her, his expression now changed to a piercing glare. “You’re not though are you? That’s the point. I just can’t believe you’d do this to me. Who gives you the right?” He spat the words out, pointing his finger as if aiming the words like bullets for full impact.

“I did it for you Ady,” she placed her hand on his knee. “Can’t you see that?”

Adrian shot up from the sofa, smacking her hand away for the second time. “You did it for yourself. No-one else! You stole me, stole me from my real mother.”

“No, no -” she shook her head, staring up at him. She had her hands clasped together, praying. He had a temper, just like his father.

Taking a heavy sigh he turned his back on her and stared out the patio window and across the neatly trimmed grass, only broken by one of three large apple trees that towered over the house. He made deliberate breaths, in and out just like the doctor had shown him. “When were you going to tell me?” He sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question.” He said. “When I was 17, 18, 19. Ever?”

“Of course I was going to. Do you think this has been easy for me do you?” She barked, her voice rising in volume for the first time.

Adrian turned to face her once again, a deep frown engraved on his forehead. He had his arms crossed as he stood in front of the television. “So who are you then? I mean,” he paused, scrolling his eyeballs up as he thought. “If your not my real mum who are you?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that,” she said her face becoming more severe. “I’m the woman who took care of you. Took you in when you were only a baby, fed you, loved you and clothed you. I may not be your real mother, but I love you as if you were my son and I’ve done the best I can.” She was looking straight into his wet eyes, digging deep for him to understand. Her own eyes were again starting to become teary, and drip down her cheek, tickling her face as they meandered down to her chin.

He came to sit back down on the sofa, the leather cushions squeaking. He lent back on the arm. “Who was she then?” He eyed the photograph that now rested on his lap.

“She was -” She stopped. “She would have been a brilliant mother.” Her eyes shone as she recollected the memories, the corners of her mouth even turning up to a smile. She stared into space.

Adrian’s voice had lowered and was now much calmer, but it wouldn’t be for much longer if she didn’t start being straight with him. “But who was she? I need to bloody know. Was she a relative, a friend?”

“One of the greatest friends you could have.” She said with the smile still on her face, although tears were still appearing, whether out of sadness, anger or from the memories Adrian did not know.

What he did know is that she was not giving him a good answer. He slammed his hand down on the leather of the sofa. “What do you mean?” He abandoned the breathing. Fuck the doctor, he thought.

The woman sniffed, now looking back at Adrian. Her lip trembled and her breathing became quick and uncontrollable. “She was -”

“What!”

“My sister.” This was the trigger, it set of the tears even more and she sobbed with her head in her hands and her body slumped against one side of the sofa.

Adrian felt the tears welling up as he looked at her, but he didn’t want to cry though, he wasn’t a wuss. He turned his attention back to the photograph in his left hand, at his mother and the happiness on her face. He could see it now of course, they did look very similar. The same brown hair and round face, with the narrow nose forming down the middle, a family trait as he saw in the mirror every morning.