When Mason told me he wanted to live with his father after the divorce, I nodded. I told him I understood. I even meant it. Divorce reshapes loyalties in ways adults barely grasp, let alone thirteen-year-olds. I told myself that giving him space was love—that letting him choose was helping him heal.
At first, it seemed to work. Mason sent photos: late-night pancakes, goofy selfies with his dad, snapshots of a room he was slowly claiming as his own. His messages were light, cheerful, easy to read. I reread them obsessively, convincing myself the tightness in my chest was just missing him, not worry. His happiness mattered more than my quiet ache.
Then things changed.
The messages slowed. Full sentences became clipped replies: “Good.” “Fine.” “Busy.” Eventually, even those stopped. Days passed. Nothing. Just the cold stare of the “read” receipt. Teenagers pull away, I reminded myself. Independence looks like distance before it feels like confidence.
But then came the emails.
At first, gentle nudges from teachers: missing homework, a drop in class participation, small questions about home life. Then guidance counselors stepped in—mentions of mood swings, isolation, a boy who once raised his hand now staring silently at his desk.
This wasn’t teenage rebellion. This was retreat.
I reached out carefully. “Thinking of you.” “Want to grab dinner?” “How are you, really?” His replies were guarded, rehearsed, words typed like shields.
One rainy afternoon, after another ignored message and a call from the school, I stopped debating. I drove straight to him, no call, no plan—just showed up when the final bell rang.
Mason froze when he saw me. Not surprise—resignation. He slid into the car quietly, closing the door as if to protect something fragile.
We sat in silence. Rain tapped the windshield.
Then he exhaled—not a sigh, a release.
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