Cursive&Caffeine:That's exactly what he's doing. He's angry and I'm the closest target since I'm the safest one. I KNOW that. But knowing it doesn't make it feel less painful when he says he'd rather live at his dad's.
Wild@Heart:Ouch. Yeah. That’s tough.
Wild@Heart:But I know the kids who push the hardest are the ones who need you the most. And a kid who feels safe enough to be his worst self around you? That's because he knows you're not going anywhere. He's testing the one thing he's most afraid of losing.
I read that three times. My throat goes tight.
Wild@Heart:He's going to figure it out. It might take a while. It might feel like a million years. But any kid lucky enough to have a mom who cares this much—who keeps going? That kid's going to be okay.
I press my phone to my chest and blink at the ceiling. The tightness moves from my throat to behind my eyes.
Cursive&Caffeine:You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.
Wild@Heart:Then I'll say it as many times as you need.
Wild@Heart:For the record, I once tried to microwave a whole egg when I was twelve because I "didn't need anyone's help." It exploded. There was egg on the ceiling. My mom made ME clean it. The point is—twelve-year-olds can be dumb, and they all turn out fine. For the most part.
I laugh in my dark bedroom, wiping my eyes. The heaviness that's been sitting on my chest all day lifts.
Cursive&Caffeine:That's the best thing I've heard all day.
Wild@Heart:Glad my childhood shame could be of service.
We talk for another hour. He tells me about calling his mom last Sunday, and how she still asks if he's eating enough, even though he's a grown man who has been cooking calorically appropriate meals for years.
I tell him my mom would be horrified by what I feed Simon for dinner on the nights I'm too wiped to pretend. He says he’d gladly batch cook meals for me and even throw in his mom's enchiladas with a side of rice and beans.
Then I tell him about the time Simon was five and told an entire grocery store that his mom "toots in the bathtub." He sends me a laughing emoji and I reply with three.
It's so easy with him. There's no performing, no curating, no making sure I sound interesting enough to hold someone's attention.
I'm just…me. Tired, messy, overthinking me. And he shows up every time I need him. Not an obligation, but a choice. As if there's nowhere else he'd rather be than on my phone at midnight, making me laugh until my stomach hurts.
Eventually the conversation slows the way late-night conversations do—with longer pauses, softer words, and the energy shifting into something quieter.
Wild@Heart:Can I ask you something?
Cursive&Caffeine:Always.
Wild@Heart:What are you most afraid of?
I stare at the screen. My thumbs hover. I type something about spiders. Then delete it. I go to type something about Simon not being happy. No, that’s not it. I type something safe and vague about "the future" and delete it since it's a cop-out and he deserves better than that.
Cursive&Caffeine:That I'll always be the one taking care of everyone else, and no one will ever take care of me.
The typing indicator appears.
Wild@Heart:Then let me take care of you.
I stare at the words, my heart doing something it hasn't done in years—reaching. Leaning toward those words like they're a fire and I've been cold for a very long time.
I respond with a kissing emoji. As an acknowledgement to how sweet that was to say.
He responds with a simple goodnight and the same kissing emoji.
And somewhere underneath the exhaustion and the doubt and the sting of another hard day, that tiny spark of hope I felt the night I signed up?
It's not so tiny anymore.
