Fourteen-year-old Sean slammed his bedroom door in his mother’s face. From inside, he heard her gasp and then cry. He leaned back against the door and drew deep breaths, slowing his heart and rage. After the yelling stopped, he always regretted it. In the moment, he couldn’t stop. She was so vulnerable, shaking as he shouted and waved a fist; he felt powerful against restraint, against her. Now, he hated himself.
“Mom,” he said through the door.
Her voice was small but clear. “I’m here.”
She was always there, no matter how badly he treated her. “I’ll clean my room.”
Friday Fictioneers: 100-word stories
photo prompt: Dale Rogerson