That’s on me. I know that.
I’d FaceTimed Mason once, on Tuesday morning, from the parking lot of a Tulsa parish while I waited for the pastor to unlock the sacristy. He’d seemed quiet. Colleen had texted me that afternoon that he was “in a mood” and I should give him space. So I did. I spent the next three days cataloging two hundred and twelve pieces of a church’s silver and told myself my son was fine.
“Gloria came Tuesday,” Mason said. “She brought a loaf of bread and some lunch meat. She said she’d be back. She didn’t come back.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Colleen took my phone before she left. She said I spent too much time on it.”
I pulled out my own phone and opened our text thread. Already ate dinner. All good, Dad. Going to bed, love you. Short, cheerful, one every evening around nine.
