For someone who is only seven years old, I spend a lot of time pretending to be normal.

Normal boys watch cartoons.

Normal boys run outside and chase tyres down the dusty paths.

Normal boys do not have an encrypted communication system under their bed.

Normal boys don’t track their mother’s long-lost soulmate.

But then again, I am not a normal boy.

Not when my mother’s heart beats with a sadness she thinks we don’t notice.

Not when she lies awake some nights, staring at her ceiling, ...