I make sure he's buckled right before circling the truck andclimbing into the driver's side. Liam had declined to come with us, retreating to his room after we cleaned up breakfast.
Noah sits quietly in the backseat on the way home, looking out the window. When he speaks after a few minutes, it honestly startles me.
"I read your letter."
My heart stops.
"You did?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Noah nods, but doesn't say anything else. I'm not going to have this conversation while I'm driving, so I put my turn signal on and pull into the first parking lot I see.
When I'm parked, I turn around to face Noah, who looks confused.
"Did you want to talk about it?"
Noah's silent for a couple of long moments, his eyes dropping to his lap.
"Why did you stop talking to me?"
The question is so heartbreaking, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from falling apart. How can I explain this to my eight-year-old in a way that will make sense to him, because I honestly—shamefully—don't know if he will understand mental illness.
I kept it vague in the letter, focusing on apologizing to Noah, to telling him how much I love him, how I went away because I'm sick and needed to get better.
I was a complete mess of tears while writing each of those letters. I just wanted my sons to know how much I love them. I knew simple words on paper wouldn't be enough to earn back their trust.
Trust is built through honesty, and I'll never lie to my family ever again.
"I told you that I was sick, right?" I ask, and Noah nods.
"Mama said it’s your mind.”
"That's right. My mind is sick, and it was... it wasn't letting me ask for help to get better..."
Noah frowns, and I don't think I'm explaining this correctly,until an idea hits me.
I give him a small smile. "You know when you have strep throat, and Mama tries to get you to take your medicine?"
His face screws up immediately, just as it does when Wendy has the dropper full of that bubblegum-flavored antibiotic, trying to get Noah's mouth to open. "It tastes nasty."
"I know," I laugh, nodding in agreement.It did taste nasty.After Noah’s fight to not take it, I had gotten curious and tasted it. I still remember Wendy’s laughter at my disgusted face.
"But, then Mama negotiates with you, and after all that huffing and puffing, you do take it, and then what happens?"
"I feel better," Noah admits, rather reluctantly.
"You do all that fighting and resisting because of that brief, nasty taste, but it ends up making you feel better," I smile at him. "That's how it was for Daddy."
"Really?" He asks, scrunching his face up. "So... you take your medicine?"
"Yes. I talk to people about my illness, and I take medicine."
"Do you feel better, Daddy?"
My throat constricts painfully at his question.
Because yes, I do. I'm not there, I'm not cured, I'm not perfect, but I'm getting better, and I have to keep reminding myself that it's something to be proud of.
But as my son looks at me with concern and love in his brown eyes, I feel proud.
