With my phone in hand, I perched on the side of my bed and gazed at the latest picture he had sent, which showed him and Eddie laughingly holding up a charred pizza.
However, it ceased to feel humorous. There was a problem. And the quiet was yelling.
I gave Eddie a call. Concerned, but not accusing. I tried to keep the peace with my quiet, neutral voice.
I was cautious, navigating that fine line that divorced mothers are all too familiar with, where a single incorrect word can be seen as evidence of being “dramatic” or “controlling.”
His response?
A sigh. A tired, dismissive sigh.
“He’s a teenager, Claire,” he said.
“They get lazy from time to time. You’re overthinking again.”
Something struck me. That’s what he used to say when Mason was a colicky baby. When Eddie slept through it, I lay on the bathroom floor sobbing and clutching our screaming baby since I hadn’t slept for three nights.
He had muttered, “You worry too much,” at the time. “Calm down. He will be alright.
And I had faith in him. I wanted to think he was real. Because the alternative—being alone myself in the trenches—was simply too much to bear.
Here I was once more.
Mason is still in tears, but this time he is crying quietly. Eddie continued to roll over, acting as though nothing was wrong.
However, this time? There were repercussions for my quiet.
The part of me that always knows when Mason needs me began to scream out from deep within.
I once did not ask Eddie’s permission one Thursday afternoon. I simply took a car to get Mason up from school. The world was being hazed into gentle edges by the continuous, fine drip of rain. The weather that gives you the impression that time is holding its breath.
I knew he would notice me, so I parked there. shut down the engine. waited.
Children streamed out in groups as the bell rang, yelling, laughing, and avoiding puddles. After that, I noticed him walking slowly by himself, as if every step cost my baby something.
Without a word, he got into the passenger seat.
My heart broke as well.
He clung to his sweater. He had wet sneakers. As an afterthought, his rucksack dangled from one shoulder. But I was undone by his look.
eyes that are sunken. Lips are cracked and pallid. His shoulders bent inward as if he were attempting to blend into the background.
The gap between us was warmed by the ticking heater, but not enough to relieve the pain in my chest.
Then, just above the sound of the rain hitting the windshield, he murmured.
“Mom, I can’t sleep. I’m not sure what to do.
I realized then that something was wrong with my son.
