Ezoic
I thought about the night in October when I came downstairs at two a.m. for water and found him sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. Just sitting there. Staring at nothing.
“Can’t sleep?” I’d asked.
He’d looked up at me. And for a second, his face did something. Crumpled, almost. Like he was going to say something.
Then it closed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
He went back to bed.
“I thought he was just growing up,” I said to Denise.
Ezoic
Denise buried her face in her hands.
“Cole’s been the same,” she said through her fingers. “Exactly the same. Tired. Quiet. He asked me last month if I knew how to make chicken soup from scratch. Cole. Cole, who eats cereal for dinner. He wanted to know how to make soup.”
“What did you tell him?”
