Act of Redemption

6th place in the 2024 NYCMidnight 250 word Microfiction contest.

I had everything I needed. The burden of proof was now recorded and uploaded from the Nikon dangling at my side. And yet I remained, watching. The sting of cold rain wasn’t enough to pull my fingers from the chain-link fence separating me from my son on this day of reconciliation—this anniversary of when I had been required to give up my rights as a mother while battling the drink. That drink, which had brought his father and I together, then torn us apart, forced me to become a bystander in my son’s life, by order of the court.

Rusty swings groaned in lazy arcs against aging playground steel.

His father took shelter in a shaded corner of the playground, a bottle half-hidden in his coat, the neck visible beneath his arm. He took a long drink, his eyes distant. He couldn’t see the change—the world around me slowing through the lens of sobriety. One year ago, he had successfully bargained my son away from me, promising a better life without his mother. I believed him, believed the judge, then.

I waited until his father took another swig, his head tilted back. I pushed the gate open, the steel creaking, and walked toward my son, each step a reminder of the cost of that bargain. He looked up, his eyes wide, a cautious smile. I knelt, brushing a raindrop from his bruised cheek.

“I’ll fix this,” I said, lifting him from the ground. “I’m taking you home.”