His Name Was Eric
By Nefertiti Thomas
His name was Eric. I don’t remember much about the guy — just that one day, Mom showed up wearing him like a new perfume, along with a smile I’d never seen before. They met at Naugles and had some “amazing” connection just before he gave her a ride home on his motorcycle. At least, that’s what I overheard her telling a friend over the phone, laughter spilling between every word. The only trouble was, Eric was 21 — and my mom, well, she was 36.
Don’t get me wrong — she was beautiful, and looking back, I can see how a young guy like Eric would be taken by her elegance and allure.
He, on the other hand, was blonde, blue-eyed, and rough around the edges. A worn leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a white tee were his go-to fashion choices. His friends were eclectic, diverse, and unrefined, but anyone that came by our house was always polite and on their best behavior. Mom had that sort of effect — a presence that could scare the hell out of you without saying a word. They fell quickly in love, and Eric moved in. There wasn’t any grand arrival — probably because whatever or whoever he left behind wasn’t much worth remembering.
My mom seemed happy, lighter. Eric made her feel like a woman, and I saw a different side of her — unstressed, even carefree. We were poor as hell, but maybe it’s a little easier to be hopeful when someone’s beside you, softening the blows of poverty, social inequality, and unplanned mishaps.
From time to time, he’d ask me about my books or artwork. He’d ask a lot of random questions, honestly trying to be some sort of father figure — though he was really just a kid himself. But he was the only man I remember my mother dating who even tried. And that meant something to me.
One quiet evening, I tiptoed barefoot across the hardwood floor to my mom’s room. I don’t even remember why — maybe to say goodnight. I knocked gently. Heard laughter and the low thrum of Eric’s voice. I turned the knob.
They both looked up in shock. Naked. He on top of her. And me — 8 years old — frozen in the doorway.
I shut the door and ran. Tears streamed down my face as I crawled under the covers. I felt my stomach turn and my heart beat out of rhythm. I didn’t know what I had seen, but I knew I couldn’t unsee it.
We never spoke about it.
In time, they began fighting regularly. Maybe it was money. Maybe the drinking and weed. I’d hear her yelling while I sat in my room, quietly listening. One night she threw bottles of beer into the street. He salvaged the unbroken ones, unfazed. That was Mom — everything she felt showed up full force. And that was probably part of what drew him in.
Eventually, during one of their confrontations, Eric disappeared. He always came back — until the day he didn’t.
That day, I was home sick. Mom had left mid-morning. I started to feel better and sat in the sun by the sliding glass door, enjoying the silence. Eric came in with a six-pack of wine coolers and sat on the floor. He cracked one open. Then looked at me.
“Ever had alcohol?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
He smiled, handing me one. “Your mom says you need to be exposed to things. I think she’s right.”
I took a sip. It was sweet, rebellious, and dangerous. We talked, though I barely remember the conversation. I was 8.
Eventually, he said, “Let’s go for a ride.”
I had never been on a motorcycle. No helmets. No fear, at first. I held on tight, eyes squeezed shut, heart racing. The wind slapped against my cheeks. I remember the sound more than the visuals — everything moving, blurring.
We stopped at a duplex. Eric said we were visiting a friend. Inside, I was introduced, offered another wine cooler (I accepted), and then weed (I declined). I felt dizzy. He and his friend laughed.
I fell asleep watching TV.
“Wake up. Come on, we have to go,” Eric said.
We rode home. He rushed to hide the bottles. Mom walked in just minutes later. I’d brushed my teeth several times, but I avoided kissing her hello.
She smelled the alcohol on him. He denied everything. She searched the house, eventually found the evidence. Eric’s friend tried calming her down — it didn’t work.
That night, Eric begged her to let him stay. They stood in the moonlight, under the lamppost, shadows flickering. I watched from my window, unable to hear what was said. I’m sure she told him she loved him — but he had to go. And go he did.
We never saw him again.
Mom was heartbroken for a long time. I’d hear her crying through the walls. I once found her sobbing on the kitchen floor and tried to comfort her. But we never spoke of it. I never told her what really happened that day. I didn’t want to destroy her memory of him.
I always wondered what became of him. I’m sure she did too. But in the end, I guess we just never know.
If you’d like to hear this story narrated in my own voice, listen on my podcast Unwritten.
