I thought college had helped with that. Tom called often, texted pictures of cafeteria food that looked like punishment, and sent updates about professors he liked.
He sounded lighter there. But the message he sent me that afternoon hit before my mind could catch up.
Just one message. No context. No follow-up. Just:
“I am so sorry, Mom.”
Tom had never apologized without telling me why, not when he broke a window at 12, not when he failed a chemistry exam. Those five words didn’t sit right with me, no matter how I tried to brush them off.
I called Tom. Straight to voicemail. Again. Then his phone was off.
The message he sent me that afternoon hit before my mind could catch up.
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