I Thought My Teenage Son Was Staying at His Best Friend’s House Every Weekend Until His Mom Called Me With the Same Story

I used to sing to him. Every night. You remember. Friends in Low Places. I was terrible.

Ezoic
He used to put his hand on my face while I sang. On my cheek. Like he was feeling the song come out.

Ezoic
I think about that every day.

Thank you for raising him. Thank you for locking the door. You were right to lock it. You saved him. You saved him from me.

I’m sorry I was the thing you had to save him from.

— Greg

I sat in that chair in the dark with the letter in my lap.

I looked at Greg. Asleep. Yellow. Breathing slowly. His hand lying on top of the blanket.

I looked at Nathan on the couch. Curled up under the olive green jacket. Sixteen years old. Six foot one. Greg’s hands. My smile.

I thought about the night I changed the locks. The two hundred dollars. The black garbage bags on the porch.