‘It shines so that it almost gives light’

Image: Getty Images

Thursday morning ten to nine. Dylan turns eight today. I look at the door every now and then to see if he’s coming yet. And in particular: whether he has a treat with him. Even if it’s just a drop. I’ve reminded his mom that he’s supposed to treat, but she sometimes forgets.

Dylan spent some time in foster care because Rachel, his mother, had a drug problem. He has been allowed to live with her again for six months. Rachel has kicked the habit, cooperates with the authorities, has her blood tested frequently. Quite an achievement. Yet she and Dylan are closely watched by Youth Services. And by the school – in other words: by me.

Birthday

A birthday is sacred to children, mothers who forget such a day get a zero on their report card. I would feel bad for Dylan if Rachel fails this test today; and also for herself. She tries so hard to stay on track. That is difficult. It’s not for nothing that she once started using.

A lot went wrong in her childhood, so she has no contact with her family. Dylan’s father ran away when Rachel was pregnant. Rachel can’t keep a job, she just got fired from her job as a coffee lady because she never showed up on time. As a result, she and Dylan have to rely on the food bank. It won’t be an expensive treat, but they must have liquorice there.

Read also – Mariëlle goes to the Food Bank: ‘My ex barely pays alimony for our daughters’ >

Treat

The class is full, only Dylan is not there yet. I put off the moment I start, but in the end I just clear my throat. Then Dylan and his mother enter. They both hold a tray full of black-pink-yellow figures. The silence falls now without my having to ask for it. All the children watch with their mouths open. Dylan is so radiant that he almost glows. “They are pulldrop penguins,” he says. “Home-made.”

“The silence now falls without my having to ask for it. All the children are watching with their mouths open”

The penguins’ feet are made of foam banana. They have bodies made of marshmallow, their wings are made of drag licorice. The cups consist of two little cooks with a puffed orange rice grain in between as a beak. The parts are held in place by skewers. They are little miracles.

Solemnly, Dylan and Rachel walk around the circle with their trays. The children take their penguins very carefully. They look at them from all sides. Rachel presents me with homemade cake. I thank her as if the cake comes from The Hague’s purveyor and I’m in seventh heaven.

Made together

Rachel tells how she searched the internet in the library for something she could make with Dylan. That she saved for the ingredients. That she and Dylan spent a week working on the penguins; every night they made four. That they walked from home to make sure nothing happened to the penguins.

I spontaneously give her three kisses. Her cheeks are red with joy. “I sometimes think that I can’t do it at all, being a mother,” she says. “You are really good at it,” I say.

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