“Shepherd, your daddy has asked that you leave school early and come on home.” The kids all looked at him, disappointed that he would get to leave early and they couldn’t.
“Am I in trouble Mrs. Taylor?” he asked.
“No son, you’re not in any trouble,” she said with tears in her eyes. She helped him put his coat on and then his backpack. She squared his shoulders, looking at his beautiful little face and hugged him.
Mrs. Taylor only hugged you if you were sick or did something really special in class. He wasn’t sick and he hadn’t done anything special that he remembered.
“Go on, now,” she said. Mr. Pierson was standing at the door. The principal looked down at the boy and tried to smile.
“Come on, Shepherd. I’m going to walk you home now.”
“Is my dad okay? Why didn’t him or my mom come?”
“I can’t answer that, son. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Mr. Pierson reached for his hand and Shep took it, looking back at his classmates. In hindsight it was almost as if they knew something horrible was wrong.
It was only two blocks to his house. He could see it from the school but on most days, his mother was there waiting for him. When they got closer, Shep noticed the police cars and his stomach began to hurt like he’d had too much candy.
When they stopped in front of his home, Mr. Pierson knelt down and looked at his face. He straightened his shirt and smiled at him.
“It will be okay, Shepherd. Mrs. Taylor and I will come by later to see if you need anything.”
“O-Okay. What’s going on, Mr. Pierson?”
“Shepherd? Son, come see me,” said his father.
Mr. Pierson turned him, patting his back to push him along. He walked up the steps, turning once to see Mr. Pierson wiping his eyes and walking back toward the school.
“Dad? What’s wrong? Why are the police here?”
“Shepherd, it’s your mom, son.” His father seemed frozen, unable to continue his thoughts.
“Is she hurt? Is she sick?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes. No,” stammered his father. “Shepherd, you may not understand this now. Lord knows, I don’t understand it. But your mother took her own life today. Do you know what that means?”
“She killed herself. Suicide,” he said quietly.
“Yes, son. She killed herself. She didn’t leave a note, she didn’t say anything, but she’s gone Shepherd. It’s just you and me now.”
The police officers were standing on the front porch as well. They all gazed at him with empathetic stares, sorrow filled faces, probably thinking of their own children and their dangerous jobs.
“Did-did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“No. No, son. You did nothing wrong at all. Your mother wasn’t well. Not in her stomach or her body, but in her heart, her soul, in her head. Does that make sense?”
“No,” he said definitively, fighting back tears.
“Will you allow me, Mr. Wilde?” said a man in a suit. His father nodded as the man sat beside him. “Shepherd, my name is Dr. Elliott Day. I work with the police department when there are suicides or other terrible accidents.”
“Did I do something wrong?” he repeated.
“You did nothing wrong, Shepherd. Nothing. Sometimes people have so much pain in their heads, in their hearts, in their souls, that they can’t find a way to deal with that pain. There seems to be nothing to do to alleviate it and make it go away.”
“But someone did something,” said Shepherd.
“No, son. No one did anything to your mother. She was sad. Did you know that she was seeing a psychiatrist?”
