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At first he thinks he has her eyes, that’s the only thing he inherits. But mom once had dark-coloured hair and he thinks about her as a brunette. Joe likes the idea that she would have looked like him too. Sometimes he holds her hands a little too long when they skate, glossy nails against his palms and if Joe could change the world, he would give her everything he has. There are two cents and a half-eaten lunch bag under his name. Mom wouldn’t like it, she skips out on meals and chocolates in heart-shaped boxes; says she doesn’t believe in receiving, but the woman puts crummy flowers he picked into a vase. Joe wants to think that she loves him enough, even when the paper bag is leaking and he’s still holding her hands, asking her to skate.
“You want to go for another round, Joe?”
She smiles and he thinks it would be comfortable to be here for the rest of his life, finally growing older and graduating from this stage of infancy where he can take out the trash for their apartment, and protect the grin on her face even as they repaint the living room to a softer lilac. You’re safer now, he wants to say when she brushes a lock of hair behind the shell of his ear, still refusing her pink earmuffs. Dad can’t hurt us anymore.
“Yeah!”
He nods eagerly, doesn’t want to call her, mom, just yet.
Maybe it will ruin things.
Maybe he’s fine with just being the pseudo-replacement for her old teddy bear.