Theo had been cryingsince Jessa left. Not sulking or pouting the way kids do when they don’t get their way. But the crying that shakes a small body from the inside out. It comes from a place so deep you can’t reach it with words or promises or distractions or new video games
His was genuine grief. And the worst—it ripped me in half because I knew I caused it. I’d pushed Jessa away, and I couldn’t see a way to fix it.
It started the morning after she left. He’d woken up calling for her, stumbling down the hall in his pajamas, still half-asleep. When I sat him down and did a horrible job of explaining that Jessa and I would not see each other for a while, his face crumpled. He didn’t throw a tantrum. Didn’t yell or scream. He just stood there in the middle of the living room and cried like his heart was breaking.
I tried everything. Made his favorite breakfast. Put on his favorite show. Promised him we’d go to the arcade, the planetarium, anywhere he wanted.
Nothing worked.
He pushed his plate away. Turned off the TV. Looked at me with those red-rimmed eyes and sadly proclaimed, “I want Jessa.”
I had no answer for him. Because I wanted her too. I’d pushed away someone pretty special and had no idea how to recover from it.
The tantrums came later. Days of slamming doors and wet pillows and eyes so swollen they looked bruised. I worried about sending him to school looking like that.
I decided that bringing another nanny into the house wasn’t a great idea, so I worked from home for now.
He went from screaming that he hated everyone to clutching the letter she’d left him like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. He’d folded and refolded it so many times the creases were nearly torn through.
He wouldn’t let me read it. Kept it stuffed in his coat pocket when he went to school, tucked under his pillow when he slept. It was like a secret only between them he wasn’t ready to share.
The penthouse felt wrong without Jessa, too quiet and empty. The spaces she used to fill with laughter and warmth were hollow now. Her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet next to mine. Her scented body lotion was still in the guest bathroom. A hair tie mysteriously appeared on the kitchen counter, and I didn’t have the heart to throw it away.
I couldn’t look at any of it without feeling like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart and soul. I kept waiting for the hurt to pass. Only each day made it worse.
It was after midnight.I’d been staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, when I heard the pad of bare feet on the marble floor. Cupboards opening. Something rustling. I got up to investigate.
I found Theo standing on a chair in front of the pantry, still in his pajamas, reaching for something on the top shelf.
“Theo? What are you doing?”
He froze and didn’t turn around.
“It’s late. You should be in bed.”
Nothing. I figured he had his hand in the chocolate chip granola box again.
I stepped closer. “Buddy, what are you looking for? Are you hungry?”
He climbed down from the chair, clutching something in his fist. Without looking at me, he brushed past and headed back to his room.
“Theo—”
The door to his room slammed shut.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the open cupboard and the box of pasta on the shelf. Jessa had used the same pasta to make the bingo game with him.
I closed the cupboard and went back to bed, but I couldn’t shake the image of my son sneaking around in the middle of the night, hiding something from me, and shutting me out.
This wasn’t like us. We used to be so close. How did everything over the past year get away from me, turn my relationship with my son into this?
The next day, I did laundry—Theo hadn’t bothered to wash his clothes and hockey gear at all. He seemed to wake up, go to school, half-ass his way through practice, and come home straight to bed after dinner.
Admitting defeat, this was beyond me. I finally called the best child therapist around to help, and solidified an appointment scheduled a few days from now.
As I shoved the wet clothes into the dryer, I pulled out a pair of Theo’s jeans and found red mushy stuff all over them. “What the hell?” I checked the pockets and came up with what looked to be a half-disintegrated red pasta noodle.
My first instinct was anger, the hot flash of frustration that came from dealing with a kid who forgot to empty his pockets. I almost stormed into his room to remind him. But then I stopped.
