“It’s not like Dad’s house,” he said.
I felt a familiar ache.
“No. It’s not.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“But I can breathe here.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“At Dad’s house, everything had to look perfect. My grades. My clothes. Who I talked to. What I said. Even when I was scared, I had to pretend I wasn’t.”
He picked up another slice of pizza.
“Here, I can just be me.”
I turned away before he saw my tears.
Not because I was sad.
Because I had spent years believing that I had failed to give my son enough.
I had worried about the school trips we couldn’t afford, the vacations we never took, and the opportunities Harrison could provide so easily.
I had mistaken a smaller life for a lesser one.
Tyler had just reminded me that those were not the same thing.
