The Brilliant Light of Amber Sunrise by Matthew Crow

gave me a look and nodded, which meant she was proud of me, and suddenly I was proud of myself too. In that moment I was keeping my entire family afloat, and safe from complete emotional breakdown.
    I suddenly felt quite burdened.

    Dinner was a somber affair. Grandma told us stories about Granddad, which I’d heard a thousand times before but still smiled at because I liked hearing her tell them. Grandma was different when she talked about Granddad. It was as if someone jiggled her antenna and suddenly the picture became a bit clearer. Mum loved hearing about him too. They were always close. Mum had him and Grandma living with us when he had been unwell, and took loads of time off work to help out. Even Grandma said she’d made her proud, the way she had behaved.
    Grandma was still there when I went to bed. When I hugged her to say good night she drew me tightly to her and gave me a surprisingly wet kiss and whispered in my ear that she loved me. I said it back, then said good night to Mum before making my way to bed.
    The day’s downward spiral had left me feeling low. I logged on to eBay to check my positive feedback comments in the vain hope that it might give me a confidence boost. It did, slightly, but not as much as usual. So I started searching for songs that spoke to the mood of the day. I came up with a promising opening trio: “Life on Mars” by David Bowie, “She’s Leaving Home” by the Beatles, “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman.
    I was starting to become engrossed in the task when I heard a knock at the bedroom door and Mum asked if she could come in.
    I had to think twice before granting her access, fearing another outbreak of violence. Eventually I closed the laptop as quietly as I could and put it on the floor beside the bed, lying back as though I had just been woken up. I said that she could, but used a weak, tired voice so that she’d know to be gentle.
    When she came in she started fussing about my desk, putting used tissues in the bin and pretending to be dead interested in the homework I’d left open to prove it was actually being done.
    â€œI know you weren’t asleep,” she said, sitting on my bed. “I could hear you closing the laptop.”
    From downstairs I could hear the Coronation Street theme tune playing, which meant it was ten o’clock and Grandma was catching up with the soap opera’s repeat.
    â€œSorry I skipped,” I said. I wasn’t really sorry; I was pleased I’d had the day to myself. I wasn’t even that sorry for scaring Mum anymore, not after her outburst. But I said it anyway, to try and make her feel better.
    â€œThat’s okay. Sorry I went off on one. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
    I shrugged. I was not quite ready to accept my mother’s apology. She needed to know that this sort of behavior could not be condoned. To normalize it would only encourage a repeat performance.
    â€œOh, Francis, what are we going to do, eh?” she said eventually.
    I told her that I’d go to school every day from now on, even weekends if she wanted me to, and never skip again. She just wafted her hand and took a sip of water from my cup beside the bed.
    â€œThat’s fine. It’s over and done with. I mean . . . this has blown a hole right through me, Francis, you know? And I feel like I shouldn’t say that because the last thing you should be doing right now is worrying about me.”
    She was right. My energies were best reserved for the battle ahead. I didn’t say as much, though, just nodded ­sympathetically.
    â€œI’m not very good at all this,” she said, teasing the feathers of my dream catcher. “I can cope, just about, in my own way. But I don’t know what you need me to be. That’s my problem.”
    â€œYou’ve always managed before.”
    â€œWell, before was different. I’m having a bit of a crisis of confidence here, Frankie. Good