That was the part that broke him.

Not Mason.

Sophie.

When he came home, he walked straight upstairs.

I followed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You look upset.”

“I’m tired.”

“Did someone say something?”

“No.”

“Was it Mason?”

His face tightened.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“Please stop.”

I thought he meant stop asking.

What he really meant was:

Stop making me relive it before I know how to explain it.

I didn’t understand that yet.

---

BY WINTER, MY SON HAD BECOME VERY EASY TO LIVE WITH

That sounds like a good thing.

It wasn’t.

He stopped arguing.

Stopped asking for rides.

Stopped leaving dishes everywhere.

Stopped sitting beside me while I cooked.

He would come home, say:

“Fine.”

Go upstairs.

Close the door.

At dinner:

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Homework?”

“Done.”

“Anyone bothering you?”

“No.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

Fine.

Done.

No.

Yes.

A whole relationship reduced to four words.

I became increasingly frightened.

So naturally—

I became increasingly controlling.

I checked the parent portal three times a day.

Texted him during lunch.

Asked teachers whether he seemed happy.

Called my sister whenever Ethan stayed in his room too long.

My sister finally said:

“Claire, have you tried just sitting with him?”

“I talk to him constantly.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

I became defensive.

“I know my son.”

“Then why do you keep calling me to ask what he’s thinking?”

I hung up irritated.

Mostly because she was right.