The Leash by Michael Browning

Mr. and Mrs. Brown were angry, though Mrs. Brown suspected she was far angrier than her husband. Their son had, once again, run off, leaving nothing more than a note. Typical of him, leaving without a word; he should’ve known better by now. Then again, despite their many arguments, Mrs. Brown had always understood that her words did not affect him; he simply didn’t care—he didn’t listen to a single thing she said—and now he was gone. She had supposed it was only a matter of time before it happened again, though this occasion seemingly came out of the blue; they had not argued or even said a word to each other all day. She wished he would communicate—perhaps then they could work something out—but he never talked to her, despite her constant attempts to reach out. 

Mrs. Brown never would have imagined doing anything like this; she had been a good kid—an excellent one at that. Her parents, who were diplomats, treated her like an adult from a very young age. Perhaps that level of trust instilled in her a sense of responsibility that wasn’t typical in kids, but she’d tried to treat her son the same way; clearly, that didn’t work. Her maturity must have instead come from the environment she grew up in, rather than her parents, but that was an unsettling thought; it’s not like she could force her son abroad—force him to grow up constantly weary of the KGB. Her experience was rather unique; it wasn’t a good blueprint for raising a family. 

Still, she wanted so desperately to instill in him the same values that she held so close to her heart; she wanted him to care about family, about doing the right thing. She wanted him to be like her; she wanted a little Mrs. Brown. Perhaps that’s selfish, perhaps it’s unrealistic; he would never be her, and perhaps by holding onto him so tightly, she had scared him off. 

She imagined him on a leash. A leash steadily growing longer and longer. He ran—ran fast as he could away from her—and all the while she clawed at the leash. She pulled him back, back, back—towards her until he was just out of reach. But the leash kept growing, and as she pulled, it grew faster. Come back! Come back! She clawed at the leash—desperately, frantically—but it just grew. 

Then he looked back—his face a mess of emotions. Was it fear? Anger? Resentment? Nothing good, surely; nothing that a mother would want to see—certainly not as their kid looks them in the eye. But what had she done? Had she hurt him? In that brief moment of reflection, her grip loosened, and a second later, her son was gone—out of reach. She no longer held the leash; she no longer had control—but curiously, James stopped running. He stopped and turned back towards her. He smiled; he spoke; she didn’t hear him. She just stared, her mind racing. Then she smiled, too. 

James would come back—he always did within a day—and when he did, Mrs. Brown decided she would not yell at him; she would not argue. Instead, she would hug him and ask what he needs.