Then away again.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Not just the words.
The agreement.
The soft nods.
The little pursed lips.
The silent decision that what she had said was true, and maybe even deserved.
My ten-year-old son, Ethan, was sitting beside me at a round table covered in white linen and baby-themed confetti.
He had gone still.
Not fidgety still.
Not embarrassed still.
The kind of still that means something is happening behind the eyes.
His hand slid under the edge of the tablecloth and found mine.
It wasn’t shaking.
It was cold.
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