“That’s a lot better,” I agreed.
He went back to school in the fall.
Stronger, warier, a little sadder in a way that I think is just called growing up. He joined a group on campus — a support group, partly for LGBTQ students, partly a broader thing about recognizing manipulation and financial abuse in relationships, which turns out to be shockingly common and shockingly under-discussed, especially for young people just learning how love is supposed to feel.
He speaks at it now, sometimes. Tells his story. The pot roast, the basement, the forms in the backpack.
“My mom recognized him in two seconds,” he tells rooms full of nineteen-year-olds, “because she was paying attention when I couldn’t be. Most of you don’t have that. So I’m going to teach you what she knew. Here’s what the warning signs actually look like.”
He’s helping kids not get hurt.
My son turned the worst day of his young life into a shield for other people.
I have never been prouder of anyone.
As for me — I keep the good dishes out now.
I used to save them for holidays. After that Sunday, I decided that was foolish. You don’t save the good things for someday. You use them for the people you love, now, while you have them.
