Golda, can we talk about this?
Please let me know if we’re okay or not. I would have dropped everything to be in court with you if you’d just told me.
The last one came through at 11 PM Friday night. Nothing since then. Radio silence that I created by being too proud, too scared, too stuck in my own defensive patterns to respond.
It’s Saturday afternoon now, and I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours cycling between righteous indignation (he should have known I was scared) and crushing guilt (how could he have known if I didn’t tell him?). The guilt is winning.
I’ve started typing responses at least a dozen times:
I’m sorry for—Delete.
You were right, I should have—Delete.
I got mad and I took it out on you—Delete.
Every attempt sounds inadequate or defensive or like I’m making excuses for behavior I know was unfair.
Finally, I just start typing without overthinking it.
I owe you an apology for Thursday night.
Send before I can second-guess myself.
You were right. You couldn’t have known about the court case if I didn’t tell you.
I was scared. I’m sorry.
I don’t know how to do this—trust someone with the hard stuff. But I want to learn.
I set the phone down and immediately want to pick it up again, to see if he’s read the messages, if he’s typing back, if I’ve completely ruined everything or if there’s still a chance to fix this.
The response comes faster than I expected.
Thank you for saying that. It means a lot.
Give me a chance to show you that you can trust me with everything. Even the scary stuff.
Especially the scary stuff.
I’m readinghis responses for the third time when Blythe’s voice pierces the morning quiet.
“MOM! IT’S HERE! IT’S HERE!” Blythe’s screeching makes me slam my coffee cup down, sloshing the precious caffeineover my hand. At 8:30 on a Sunday morning, any sound above normal conversation level should be illegal.
“What’s here?” I call back, mopping up the spill. “And inside voice, please.”
Blythe is practically vibrating with excitement. “THE SPECIAL DELIVERY! THE MAN SAID IT’S FROM DEX!”
Behind her, Tyson appears with a large box, his expression caught between eye-rolling at his sister’s volume and poorly concealed curiosity about the contents.
“A delivery? On Sunday morning?” I take the box, which is emblazoned with the team logo. “That’s... unexpected.”
“OPEN IT!” Blythe commands, bouncing on her toes. “I BET IT’S SPARKLY SKATE GUARDS!”
“Inside voice,” Tyson and I say in unison, which she completely ignores.
I find scissors and carefully open the box to find three tissue-wrapped packages inside, each with a name tag. I hand Tyson and Blythe their respective bundles, keeping mine for last.
“Oh my god,” Tyson breathes as he unwraps his package. “Mom, look.”
