Page 17 of Don’t Call Me Son

‘He’s too humble.’

‘Needs to believe in himself more.’

‘Would be nice if he had someone to remind him how good he is.’

It hits different now, sitting here looking at him. Is Archie… lonely? He’s never had a real connection with anyone. He’s never really asked for anything. He’s so damn grateful that Sarah and I pay for his tuition that he acts like he doesn’t deserve birthday presents or Christmas gifts. Last time Sarah and I went on holiday, he refused to come; sat with her while she booked the flights just to make sure she only got two tickets. Insisted on staying home to “take care of the house.” And he did, perfectly.

Does he really think that’s all he’s allowed to have? Just running, his friends, and sitting alone in front of the TV at night, so he doesn’t inconvenience us? It strikes me hard then… maybe Archie feels like he’s in the way; like he’s just a guest in this house.

I wonder what he was like before his dad died, if that loss cracked something in him. If he’s spent years just trying to be grateful he still has his mom.

I frown, hating the new ache in my chest. The strong, sudden urge to pull him into my arms is almost overwhelming.

I watch him scroll through the channels like he’s trying not to take up too much space, and something inside my chest starts to sting. How long has he been like this?

Seven years; his dad died when he was fourteen. That’s a long fucking time to carry something so heavy and never let it show. Has he been lonely this whole time? Quietly grateful, quietly careful, quietly trying not to be a burden?

I wonder how Sarah never saw it; she’s busy, I remind myself. She works brutal shifts at the hospital. She’s an incredible mom; I don’t blame her. But still… the thought sits heavy in my gut.

No one should be that lonely. No one should feel like a guest in their own home. Like they have to sneak around and wait their turn and make themselves small, so they don’t inconvenience the people who are supposed to love them most.

Archie’s friends are probably causing absolute chaos in their own homes; stealing the remote, getting drunk on weekends, spending entire days in bed recovering, and making stupid decisions they’ll laugh about for years. That’s what twenty should look like… loud, messy, and reckless; full of memories you’ll both regret and cherish.

But Archie? He’s abnormally… good and mature. He ran himself into the ground today and still made sure to do his laundry before relaxing; so his mom doesn’t have to.

My eyes start to burn. God, kid… how has this been going on right under my nose? He’s in his prime. He should be out making stupid decisions, chasing girls, or boys, staying out too late, failing spectacularly at things and laughing about it later. Instead, he’s sitting here in the dark at 8:55pm like he’s afraid of disturbing the peace of the house.

I have to blink hard a couple times, swallowing the lump in my throat. My chest feels tight, almost painful. He deserves better than this; he deserves to feel wanted, spoiled, and fucking seen. And the fucked up part is… I want to be the one to give him that.

I sit here for another long moment, chest aching, before my voice comes out quiet and almost broken. “Archie… come here please.”

Archie mutes the TV immediately, head turning toward me. He looks thrown off; not by the request, but by the way I said it. It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t an order, it was just… a plea. I’m silently praying he doesn’t turn me down.

He nods slowly, a concerned little frown creasing his brow. He sets the remote down and stands, walking over carefully like he’s approaching a wounded animal. He sits on the far end of the couch, still giving me space.

“You okay?” he asks softly. “Do you want me to leave? I can go to my room…”

I let out a wet, broken little sob of a laugh.

Archie’s eyes widen. “Oh, sorry… I didn’t…”

I wave my hand quickly, cutting him off, because even now… even when I’m clearly hurting, for him… he immediately assumes he’s the problem. That he should disappear into his room, so he doesn’t bother anyone.

Jesus Christ, kid. I can’t speak right now; my throat is too tight. So, I just reach over, grab his arm, and tug. Archie resists for half a second, that stubborn, careful part of him, before he lets out a quiet, unreadable sigh and lets me pull him in. I guide him until he’s straddling my lap, knees on either side of my thighs.

I don’t do anything sexual; I just wrap my arms around him tightly and slide one hand up to the back of his neck, pulling his head down so it rests on my shoulder. His damp hair brushes my jaw. I hold him there, one hand stroking slowly up and down his back, the other cradling his neck like something precious.

I just want him to feel it… to feel seen and wanted and cared for. I hold him like that for a long time, just breathing him in, before I gently push Archie upright so I can see his face.

I cup his cheeks with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes… they’re so deep, so sad. There’s an emptiness in them where a twinkle should be, where life and mischief and youth should be shining. I close my own eyes for a second, trying to steady myself.

“Colt?” Archie whispers, voice small. “What’s going on?”

I open my eyes again and look at him, really look at him, and the words come out rough and unsteady. “I want you to know that I see you, Archie,” I say quietly, my voice cracking. “I finally see you. And it’s killing me.”

I stroke my thumbs across his cheeks, watching fresh tears gather in his eyes.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know you’ve been carrying this for so long. That you’ve been walking around this house feeling like a guest. Like you have to earn your place. Like you can’t ask for anything because you’re scared of being too much. I hate that you’ve been lonely, baby. I hate that you’ve been quiet about it for so long. You lost your dad… and instead of falling apart like you had every right to, you made yourself small so you wouldn’t burden your mom. So you wouldn’t burden me.”