I consented when Mason, my 14-year-old son, requested to move in with his father after the divorce. It wasn’t because I wanted to; believe me, I would have rather to have him along. But I didn’t want to stop a father and son from reestablishing their relationship. Mason continued to spend time with me on weekends and whenever he wanted. Simply simply, I did not have him every day.
Eddie had been missed. His crazy, fun-loving father wore backward baseball caps to soccer games and made pancakes at midnight. Eddie appeared to be ready to take over. He wanted to participate. More realistic. So I let Mason go. I hadn’t expected it to break me silently. At first, Mason called frequently. He emailed me funny selfies and updates on his pizza and movie nights with his father.
I kept every photograph. I watched each video multiple times. I missed him, but I persuaded myself it was all good. He sounded satisfied. Free. And I thought that meant he was fine. The volume of the calls reduced. There were less texts. One-word responses replaced talks. Then it was quiet. Then calls began to stream in from various locations. Mason’s professors.
Someone sent an email about missed homework. “He said he had forgotten, Claire. But that’s not like him.” “He feels distant. As like he’s present but not truly… Is everything fine at home? Then came the worst: his math teacher. “We caught him cheating during a quiz.” That is not ordinary behavior. “I just wanted you to know… he looked lost.” Lost. Not rebellious. Not difficult. Just… lost.
I tried to phone him that night. No response. I left a voicemail. Hours have passed. Nothing. With my phone in hand, I sat on the side of my bed and looked at the most recent picture he had sent, which showed him and Eddie smiling while holding up a burnt pizza. It did, however, lose its funny quality. There was an issue. And the silence gave way to shouts. I gave Eddie a call. Concerned but not accusing. I attempted to maintain calm with my quiet, neutral voice.
I was cautious, straddling the delicate line that divorced mothers are all too familiar with, where a single false word might be interpreted as “dramatic” or “controlling.” How did he respond? A sigh. A tired and contemptuous sigh. “He’s a teenager, Claire,” he remarked. “They have a tendency to be lazy at times. “You’re overthinking again.” Something hit me. That’s what he used to say when Mason was a colicky infant. When Eddie slept through it, I laid on the bathroom floor, sobbing and hugging our screaming baby, having not slept in three nights.
He said, “You worry too much,” at the time. “Calm down.” He will be okay. I had faith in him. I wanted to believe he was real. The alternative, being alone in the trenches, was simply too much to bear. Mason is still in tears, but he is crying quietly. Eddie kept rolling over, behaving as if nothing was wrong. What about this time? There were consequences for my silence.
The part of me that always knows when Mason needs me started screaming from deep within. I once did not seek Eddie’s permission one Thursday afternoon. I simply used a car to pick Mason up from school. The constant, thin trickle of rain hazed the world, cutting it into gentle edges. The weather provides the sensation that time is holding its breath. I knew he’d see me, so I parked there. Shut off the engine. waited.
As the bell rang, children rushed out in bunches, yelling, laughing, and dodging puddles. Following that, I watched him walking slowly by himself, as if each step cost my baby something. He sat down in the passenger seat without saying anything. My heart broke as well. He clutched to his sweater. He had damp sneakers. As an afterthought, his knapsack hung from one shoulder. But his expression undid me.
The eyes are sunken. Lips are cracked and pale. His shoulders drew inward, as if he was seeking to blend into the background. The ticking heater warmed the space between us, but it was insufficient to alleviate the anguish in my chest. Then, just above the sound of rain on the windshield, he mumbled. “Mommy, I can’t sleep. I am not sure what to do. I recognized immediately that there was something wrong with my son. The words arrived slowly.
Eddie had lost his job. Only a few weeks after Mason moved in. He did not inform anyone. The refrigerator was almost usually empty. The lights flickered constantly. Mason claimed he stopped using the microwave because it made strange noises when it ran for too long. Eddie went out most nights. “Job interviews,” he stated. My son had to make do. His breakfast consisted of cereals. Because there was no milk, it was sometimes dry. When he ran out of socks, he did laundry. He called it lunch after eating spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar. Dinner will include dried crackers.
In the hopes that the Wi-Fi would stay long enough for him to turn in assignments, he did his homework in the dark. Mason said, “I didn’t want you to think less of him,” “or me.” The truth struck then. He was not lazy. He was not disobedient. He was drowning. During this period, he was also assisting his father in maintaining his financial stability. striving to sustain a falling house. Attempting to keep two parents from becoming more unstable. I had not noticed it, either. Not because I was unconcerned. However, I reminded myself that staying out of it was respectful. That it was appropriate to give them room.
Mason, on the other hand, did not require any extra space. He needs a caller to return home. I brought him back with me that evening. No court order was issued. No calls. Simply instinct. He made no argument. He slept for fourteen hours straight. His demeanor appeared relaxed, as if his body was now safe enough to relieve tension. He asked me if I still had that old robot mug as he sat at the kitchen table the next morning. The one whose handle has chipped. I found it in the back of the cupboard. He smiled into it, and I stepped out of the room before he noticed my eyes filling.
“Mom?” he inquired a little later. “Can you make me something to eat?” “How about a full breakfast plate?” I asked. “Bacon, eggs, sausages… the entire thing!” He simply grinned and nodded. I quietly requested a change of custody. I did not want to destroy him. I didn’t want to rip them both apart. I was aware that my ex-husband was also experiencing troubles.
However, I did not return Mason. Not until confidence had been reestablished. Not until Mason felt he needed to make a decision. And somewhere he could simply breathe, knowing that someone was keeping his air supply constant. It required time. But doesn’t healing always occur? Mason barely spoke at first. After school, he’d leave his backpack at the entrance and float like a ghost to the couch. He would stare at the television, paying no attention.
On certain nights, he would pick at his dinner, as if it was too much for him to handle. I refrained from pressing. I didn’t look at him nervously or constantly asking him questions. All I did was ease the environment. predictable. secure. We started our therapy. Gently. There is no pressure. I let him choose the therapist, the schedule, and even the music for the drive there. I told him that we simply needed to keep showing up and not try to fix everything at once. I then began discreetly writing notes on his bedroom door.
“Proud of you.” “You’re doing better than you think, honey.” “You don’t have to speak. I see you, nonetheless.” “There’s no one else like you.” They remained untouched for a while. I’d discover them curled around the edges, with the tape beginning to yellow. But I kept them up anyhow. Then one morning, I noticed a sticky note on my bedside table. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when I said nothing. “You are the best, Mom.” I sat on the edge of my bed, holding that note as if it were precious. A month later, Mason stood in the kitchen one afternoon, bag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, Mom?” “Is it okay if I stay after school for robotics club?” I froze in the middle of stirring the sauce, which was silently boiling on the burner. “Yeah,” I replied, trying not to seem very eager. “Of course.” “That sounds fantastic.” “I think I want to start building stuff again.” And I grinned because I understood what that meant. “Go, honey,” I replied. “I’ll make some garlic bread and we can pop it in the oven when you get back.” After two weeks, he brought home a model bridge made from hot glue and popsicle sticks. As soon as he picked it up, it broke apart.
After a moment of looking at the wreckage, he erupted into laughter. I laughed so hard. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll build another one.” I wanted to freeze that moment, for goodness sake. Fill the bottle. Place it in a frame. I wished the moment would never end. Because the boy was mine. The one who used to build LEGO cities and openly fantasize of being an engineer. The person who had been buried beneath quiet, humiliation, and survival. And now he was making his way back.
In May, I received an email from his teacher. End-of-year assembly. “You’ll want to be there,” she wrote. When they said his name, my hands started shaking. “Most Resilient Student!” He entered the stage without rush or embarrassment. He was proud and tall. He paused, looked around, and grinned. They sat calmly in the back seat, tears in their eyes, one hand lifted toward Eddie, the other toward me. That single gesture represented everything we were unable to express. We were in this together. Restoring.
Eddie continues to call. Occasionally, it is brief—just “How was school?” possibilities “You still into that robot stuff, son?” They sometimes discuss movies they used to see together. Sometimes there are awkward silences. But Mason always picks up. It is not ideal. But it is something. I find little notes he writes to himself taped to the wall above his desk. Things like: “Remember to breathe.” “One step at a time.” “You’re not alone, Mase.” He makes fun of me for having greying hair and an old phone. When I serve him asparagus with his grilled salmon, he gripes. He attempts to persuade me to allow him to tint his hair green.
And I pause what I’m doing and assist him when he approaches me in the kitchen. Not because I know everything. However, because he inquired. because he has enough faith in me to inquire. And that is more important than any solution. For not recognizing it sooner, I’ve forgiven myself. I now realize that there is no peace in stillness. Respect doesn’t always mean that distance.
Love can be loud at times. It occasionally shows up without invitation. It occasionally says, “I know you didn’t call, but I’m here anyhow.” Best gifts for your loved ones Freedom wasn’t necessary for Mason. He needed to be saved. And I will always be glad that I grabbed him while he was falling. Because mothers do that. We jump right in. We cling tightly. And until the breathing evens out, the eyes open, and the light returns, we hold on.