“You think candy and skipping class are what he needs?” I snapped.
“He needs to learn how to face the world, not run from it.”
“Caleb,” I said softly, suddenly tired, suddenly aching.
I held out my hand. “Come on. We’re going home.”
He hesitated, glanced at Abby, then slowly stepped forward and put his hand in mine.
I didn’t even look at Abby again.
I couldn’t. I just turned, my heart broken open, and led my son back to the car.
The next morning felt cold, though the sun was already up and the kitchen was full of light.
I moved around slowly, pouring coffee and sliding a bowl of cereal toward Caleb.
Neither of us said much.
Caleb sat at the table, shoulders hunched, spoon circling the milk without eating. His eyes stayed low, full of guilt and confusion.
I wanted to reach for him, but my heart was still sore.
I didn’t know what to say.
Then the doorbell rang—sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence like a snapped twig.
I glanced at Caleb, then walked to the door.
When I opened it, Abby stood there, hugging her arms across her chest like she was holding herself together.
Her eyes were red and puffy, and she didn’t wear her usual smile.
“I came to apologize, Anna,” she said softly.
Her voice shook, barely above a whisper. “You were right.”
I blinked, unsure I heard her right. “Right about what?”
Abby looked down at her feet.
“I’m lonely,” she said, voice cracking.
“You have a wonderful family, Anna. You have Caleb.
I guess I wanted to feel like I was part of that, too. Spoiling him… letting him skip… it made me feel needed. Like I mattered.”
My anger wavered, pushed aside by something deeper.
Something sad and old.
“Abby,” I said quietly, “I had no idea.”
She looked up, her eyes shining with tears.
“How could you? I never told you.
I didn’t know how.”
Behind me, I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps.
Caleb stood in the hallway, watching us. His eyes were wide, filled with something that looked like hope.
He slowly stepped forward, his small hands hanging at his sides, his eyes flicking between me and Abby.
There was a tightness in his face, like he was trying to keep something from breaking inside.
“Mom,” he said, voice low and shaky, “Aunt Abby didn’t make me skip school. I asked her to let me stay. School’s been really hard lately.
And I was scared you’d be mad or… disappointed.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Aunt Abby listened when I couldn’t say it out loud.”
His words hit me like a wave. I turned toward him, and my throat tightened as tears stung my eyes.Continue reading…
