It’s like that at home too.
He used to beg to go to Tanner or Chase’s before dinner to practice soccer or play video games, but he hasn’t shown interest in school or his friends for weeks.
He spends more time in his room, more time alone.
Last week, I got a phone call from Mrs. Vance, his teacher, saying he’d been arguing with kids in class.
That was unusual, but I brushed it off.
Seven can be a hard age.
Then, yesterday morning, she caught me as I was dropping him off before school.
“Ms. Cook,” she said, lowering her voice. “Is everything okay at home?”
I blinked at her. “Why?”
“Jackson just… seems quieter lately. Withdrawn. Not his usual self.”
And there it was again—that slow leak, that warning sign I’ve been ignoring because I didn’t want to name it.
Now, as we walk home from soccer practice, Jackson stares absently at his feet, his energy low and his toes scuffing the sidewalk like it’s too much effort to pick them up.
I feel the concern sitting heavily in my chest. Something’s wrong.
And I think I know what it is, but I dread the consequences of asking.
When we get home from practice, Jackson tromps upstairs to wash up and change out of his soccer clothes while I head into the kitchen to prepare lunch.
It’s Saturday, and I can feel the weekend yawning before us when I think about waiting until he’s ready to tell me what’s bothering him.
I can’t let this keep going.
The house is quiet—too quiet for a weekend.
So, when I finish making us each a turkey sandwich, I head into the living room to find Jackson sitting cross-legged on the floor with his LEGOs.
But he’s not building anything.
He’s just holding one piece, turning it over in his hand.
Settling onto the floor beside him, I pass him his plate, and he accepts it.
But then he just sets it aside without taking a bite.
“Not hungry?” I ask, my heart constricting.
Jackson shrugs, keeping his eyes on the LEGO pieces.
Willing myself to be strong, I swallow hard and set my own sandwich aside. “Hey, can I talk to you?”
He looks up at me, wary. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” I say quickly, scooting closer. “Not at all. I just… I want to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of sad lately.”
He shrugs, eyes darting back to the LEGO pieces, which he starts to shuffle around pointlessly. “I’m fine.”
“Jackson,” I say, drawing his attention back to me with the use of his full name. “You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not. I want to know what’s going on.”
