So Caleb did the only thing he could think of. He lifted one shaking hand to his forehead and saluted back.
I don’t remember walking up to the stage. I remember being there, at the bottom of the steps, and Caleb coming down them too fast with the guitar banging against his knees. I remember him walking right into me, so hard I stumbled backward.
And I remember that he was crying.
Really crying. For the first time in three years. Big, ugly, gasping sobs, his face pressed into my shoulder, the guitar wedged sideways between us. His whole body shaking with it.
I held on. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say it’s okay or shh or I’m here. I just held him while three years came pouring out of my son in the middle of a middle school gym.
I don’t know how long we stood there. Principal Whitfield, bless her, quietly called for a short break, and Mr. Lowe started playing something on the piano, and people began drifting toward the donut table. Giving us room.
