BY WINTER, MY SON HAD BECOME VERY EASY TO LIVE WITH
That sounds like a good thing.
It wasn’t.
He stopped arguing.
Stopped asking for rides.
Stopped leaving dishes everywhere.
Stopped sitting beside me while I cooked.
He would come home, say:
“Fine.”
Go upstairs.
Close the door.
At dinner:
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Homework?”
“Done.”
“Anyone bothering you?”
“No.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
Fine.
Done.
No.
Yes.
A whole relationship reduced to four words.
I became increasingly frightened.
So naturally—
I became increasingly controlling.
I checked the parent portal three times a day.
Texted him during lunch.
Asked teachers whether he seemed happy.
Called my sister whenever Ethan stayed in his room too long.
My sister finally said:
“Claire, have you tried just sitting with him?”
“I talk to him constantly.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I became defensive.
“I know my son.”
“Then why do you keep calling me to ask what he’s thinking?”
I hung up irritated.
Mostly because she was right.
SPRING BROUGHT THE FIRST REAL WARNING
Ethan came home with his right knuckles scraped.
“What happened?”
“Gym.”
“What happened in gym?”
“Basketball.”
“You hate basketball.”
He looked at me.
“Apparently today I didn’t.”
I followed him into the kitchen.
“Was Mason involved?”
“No.”
“Did somebody push you?”
“No.”
“Are you fighting?”
“No.”
“Then why are your hands bleeding?”
Ethan turned around.
“Because I punched a locker.”
I froze.
“Why?”
He laughed.
Not happily.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“You don’t punch lockers for no reason.”
“Okay.”
“So tell me.”
He stared at me.
Then asked:
“What would happen if I told you Mason’s been doing stuff all year?”
My heart started pounding.
“I’d call the school.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’d call before I finished telling you.”
“That’s because I would protect you.”
Ethan looked away.
“I know.”
He said it like an accusation.
