by Kyla Malafronte
She did not look like a mother, not at all. Her neat suits - suits, always - were carefully pressed, the pleats sharply creased. At seven, he was clever enough to doubt whether she had ever actually cared for him. The photo album (on a high shelf and seldom touched, but kept dustless by the small army of household help) showed him in her arms, but they had an oddly artificial quality, and he suspected they had been more or less posed. He imagined the nanny placing him into his mother’s lap, immaculately dressed, both of them. Picture perfect.
Kyla Malafronte is getting ready to be a freshman all over again.