The words came slowly.
Eddie had lost his job. Just weeks after Mason moved in. He didn’t tell anyone.
The fridge was almost always empty. Lights flickered constantly. Mason said he stopped using the microwave because it made a weird noise when it ran too long. Eddie was out most nights.
“Job interviews,” he claimed.
My son had to make due. His breakfast consisted of cereal. Because there was no milk, it was occasionally dry. When he ran out of socks, he did washing. He dubbed it lunch after eating spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar. Dinner will be dried crackers.
In the hopes that the Wi-Fi would last long enough for him to turn in assignments, he completed his homework in the dark.
Mason remarked, “I didn’t want you to think less of him,” “Or me.”
The truth struck then. He wasn’t slothful. He wasn’t disobedient.
He was drowning. He was also working to keep his father afloat during this time. attempting to maintain a house that was already collapsing. attempting to save two parents from becoming even more unstable.
I hadn’t noticed it either.
Not because I was unconcerned. However, I told myself that it was respectful to remain out of it. That it was right to give them room.
Mason, however, didn’t require room. He need a caller to return home.
I brought him back with me that evening. No court orders were issued. No calls. Simply instinct. He made no argument.
He slept for fourteen hours in a row. His expression seemed at ease, as if his body was at last secure enough to release tension.
He asked me if I still had that old robot mug as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning. The one whose handle is chipped.
I found it tucked in the back of the cupboard. He smiled into it and I stepped out of the room before he could see my eyes fill.
“Mom?” he asked a bit later. “Can you make me something to eat?”
“How about a full breakfast plate?” I asked. “Bacon, eggs, sausages… the entire thing!”
He just smiled and nodded.
Quietly, I requested a change of custody. I did not wish to destroy him. I didn’t want to rip them both to pieces. I was aware that my ex-husband was also having difficulties.
However, I didn’t return Mason.
Not until trust was restored. Not until Mason thought he had a decision to make. And somewhere where he could just breathe, knowing that someone was keeping his air constant.
It required time. But doesn’t healing always happen?
Mason hardly spoke at first. After school, he would leave his backpack at the door and float like a phantom to the couch. He would gaze at the television without paying any attention.
He would pick at his dinner on some nights as if the food were too much for him to eat.
I refrained from pushing. I didn’t stare at him anxiously or keep asking him questions.
All I did was soften the atmosphere. predictable. secure.
We began our therapy. Gently. There is no pressure. I let him pick the therapist, the timetable, and even the music on the drive there. I reminded him that we just needed to keep turning up and not try to cure everything at once.
