We walked in silence for a few minutes before I struck up a conversation.
“Are you ready for summer?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Can I not do basketball or football camp like last year? I hated both.”
“I remember, and I promised you wouldn’t have to go to those camps this summer. It was your father’s idea anyway. You should’ve told him you didn’t want to go.”
“Yeah. He’s nicer to me when I do sports because I’m good at them, but just because I’m good doesn’t mean I like it.”
“That’s true, Son. What would you like to do instead?”
He sighed and hesitated briefly. “I saw a flyer at school about this art class.”
Keelan was an artist at heart. As a small child, he loved coloring and drawing and was exceptionally good at them in comparison to other kids his age. The older he got, the better he became. Recently, he’d become interested in painting.
“If that’s what you want to do, it’s fine with me. Bring a flyer home on Monday, and I’ll do some research.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Even if Dad tries to make me do football and basketball?”
“I’ll make sure he knows you’re interested in something else.”
He looked up at me with worried eyes before saying, “But then he’ll get mad and yell at you like he used to.”
It broke my heart that my son was a witness to some of the abuse I suffered. I wished I could erase it from his memory bank.
“Don’t worry about me. Mommy knows how to handle herself a lot better around your father than she used to. Okay?”
He nodded, but his expression didn’t convince me that he believed me. I knew there was nothing I could say to change his thoughts, so I let it go. We continued our walk, turning the last corner before we arrived back on our street.
Que loved our walks, but he wasn’t a friendly dog. Thankfully, we didn’t encounter anyone this time. He didn’t go into attack mode unless he thought me or Keelan were in danger. He’d bark and growl at everyone we passed, as well as other dogs, making it known that he didn’t play about us.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened at school today?”
We’d stopped to let Que do his thing, giving me an opportunity to look at him. His body language told me he’d rather not talk about it, so I was surprised when he agreed.
“Sure.”
“I’m listening.”
He hesitated briefly and looked at me from the corner of his eye.
“There’s this group of boys who keep messing with me.”
“Bullies.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
