195

195

Oliver

Rowan was absent minded the whole time.

We walked into the theatre for the show with our popcorn in hand and all through as we watched, he stared blankly at the screen, his mind faraway.

I had asked a thousand times if he was enjoying himself and he would responded with a curt nod or a dismissive yes.

And even when his favorite part came on, he didn’t seem to find it funny.

“When you were a child, you would cry and thrash around if mum decided you’ve had enough screen time for the day,” I said, turning to face him.

Rowan looked at me with bored eyes, digging his hand into his popcorn.

“Dad was the one who would plead on your behalf and mum would soften up a bit,”

“I can’t remember any of that and I don’t mean to be rude but I can’t recall any of this. This show… I’m just not getting anything from it,” Rowan said.

I appreciated his honesty but also knew he wasn’t being fair. He had barely paid attention to the show.

After sitting for three hours with a disintere