I stand silent, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth. Tonight’s argument is years of frustration stacked and hidden, too tall to push away anymore. A little trigger is all it takes, and we end up like this, saying things we don’t mean, taking our aggravation out on each other.
My heart pumps misguided love.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” it beats. “But that’s your boy—aimless and crazy for you.”
Knowing that I had a role on his spiral to the bottom kills me. As his parents continue to fail him, I should be the one that steps forward and says, “This is wrong.”
But to do so at this point in his madness would be betrayal, and I have to handle his trust with care.
Inhaling an uneven breath, I watch him under the moon’s glow washing out his already pale complexion. Icy wind blows my boy’s white tee against his slender body under his unzipped hoodie, and his hands shake at his sides.