“You’re taking my son away from me?”
Ellie’s voice broke.
“You hurt him.”
“I lost my temper for one second.”
“You hurt him and hid it.”
That distinction mattered.
So did the phone call.
So did telling me not to speak.
A terrible second can begin an injury.
Everything afterward can reveal a choice.
Thomas cried.
I had seen my son cry hundreds of times in sixty-four years.
I had bandaged his knees, buried his childhood dog with him, loaned him money, sat outside his room when his first serious girlfriend left, and answered midnight calls long after he was grown.
I still loved him.
That was the hardest part.
Love did not disappear when the truth arrived.
It simply stopped being an excuse.
When Thomas asked me to tell everyone he had never been violent before, I refused.
When he asked me to say he was exhausted and overwhelmed, I told him he could explain that himself.
