My husband tells me. I beg to differ.
I don’t cry over every sad and abandoned child, over every sad story, over every cute face that’s not being looked after. But last night I cried.
There’s this boy. D. Five, almost six, years old. Blond hair. Cute face with freckles. “Lazy” little eye.
His mother dropped him at his father’s. They were never married, and mostly not together. His father lives with his mother (D’s gran). She’s old. The boy did not have any clothes. No toys. Wasn’t in school.
My sister-in-law’s mother arranged for schooling in grade R or 00 or whatever they call it, so that he could move into grade one next year. The father decided it’s too much of a hassle to drop him at school in the mornings, so he stopped taking him. He sits at home during the day with his
nasty witch of a gran. He’s not allowed to run and play. She screams and shouts at him the whole day. She’s not used to little boys.
He came to visit yesterday with sister-in-law. He’s well behaved. He’s hungry. He wolfs down his food. He needs to have his eye fixed. He needs love and caring and toys. He needs acceptance and bedtime stories. He needs hugs and kisses. He needs normal family life. He needs love.
Part of me wants to keep him and love him, care for him. Part of me wants to phone the welfare, though I don’t know where he will be worse off – in a children’s home or at home. Part of me just wants to run and hide and cry.
I think I’ll do the hiding-thing.
PS: When it’s that time of the month, I become emotionally unstable. Some months more than others. Some months I get mad, some months I cry. This seems to be a crying-month.
PPS: Hormones. It’s been said that women who never had children go into menopause earlier.