My Good Boy

I miss my boy.

 

I worry about him the entire time that he is with his dad. I worry that his dad will see me in Timesboy one day and turn on him. I worry that since Supertween isn't there to heap the vitriole on, Timesboy will take her place. I worry that someday, they'll call him the 'fucking retard.' I worry that someday they'll sit him down and tell him how 'everyone's better when you're gone.' I worry that everything he heard directed at Supertween will someday come his way. I worry that I will fail to protect him, just like I failed to protect Supertween from the relentless fists of words that beat her down.

 

I try to act normal on the days that he is gone but every thought I have and every breath I take are book-ended with thoughts of Timesboy. I find my eyes welling up in the middle of a presentation at work. I literally cannot breathe sometimes until 8:50. When I know he is cocooned in safety at school.

 

He's only eight. But he is such a wise old man at eight years old. This both makes me proud and shatters me. He has already figured out the very things I taught him. He knows how to tiptoe across the eggshells. He knows how to say 'yes' when it keeps him safe from the anger. He knows how to melt into the backseat so that he doesn't get caught in the crossfire. He knows how to 'yessir' and 'nossir' better than most adults.

 

I taught him how to be a 'good boy.'  I'll never forgive myself for that because ever time he comes home from his dad's house, I see a little less of the light flickering in his eyes.

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