Her hands adjust her rings nervously. Anxiously, she twists them 'tween forefinger, thumb each adorned with fake pink tip and sparkling butterfly. The nicotine stains are deep.

She looks through the window at the small boy as he watches television.

She's barely fifty, crows feet scrabbling at fading eyeliner and foundation, small lips dry, voice leathery. She says;

"He's not my son, I'm trying my hardest."

He's not her son. Her daughter has gone somewhere else. Her daughter now comes and goes in both mind and body. Most days, her daughter forgets she has a son. This boy.

The woman is trying hard. She is a flight attendant, she's only new. Her shifts are fifteen hours, six days a week. She's a busy lady, and besides, money is a problem for just her, let alone a kid. She sighs and looks away. Her partner doesn't like the boy either. She's barely home.

He's better now, fixed up in hospital. He's not a well child; he needs care and love.

He watches television. Unwanted.