I smile weakly. "And it deserves proper placement."
I can tell she knows something’s off. But she also knows that if I need her, I’ll come to her. She squeezes my arm before wandering off to help another teacher.
The event ends at seven thirty. I'm supposed to stay until eight for cleanup, but by seven forty-five I've organized the entire classroom, wiped down every surface, and run out of things to clean and do. I tell the other teachers I need to get home to Simon, and leave.
I spend the entire drive home talking to myself.
They're fine.
Chevy knows what he's doing.
You trust him.
So stop white-knuckling the steering wheel, Camille.
I pull into the driveway and a wave of relief hits me when I see that the house is still standing. That’s good. Low bar, but we're clearing it.
I let myself in through the front door as quietly as possible—the back porch light is on and I can hear voices through the screen door.
Out of sight, I stand in the kitchen, my purse still on my shoulder and my heart in my throat.
Chevy's voice comes first.
“My dad left when I was four. No goodbye, no forwarding address. Nothing. I never saw him again.”
I don’t hear a reply or anything from Simon.
"I spent years being angry about it. At him, at my mom, at the world. I was pissed at kids in my class for having dads who showed up to their baseball games. I was pissed at my mom for not being enough to keep him around—which is garbage, by the way, because she was so much more than enough. I was just too angry to see it."
There’s another pause. Possibly, Simon or Chevy shifting positions.
"I know how you're feeling," Chevy continues. "I felt it too. And I know you don't want to hear it from some dude your mom's dating, but I wanted to say it anyway because somebody should've said it to me back then."
I press my hand over my mouth.
Simon's voice, when it finally comes, is small and rough. "Did you ever stop being angry?"
The question hangs in the air, and I can feel the weight of it from the kitchen…years of swallowed fury packed into five words.
"Not all at once," Chevy answers. "It took a long time. But I stopped letting the anger make my decisions for me. And eventually I realized my mom was happier without my dad, and that being angry at her for moving on was just punishing the person who loved me most."
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe.
"I know it might not feel like it right now, but you're incredibly lucky, man. Your dad didn't disappear. He'sherefor you. He wants to be in your life. He shows up for you—maybe not perfectly, and maybe not on the schedule you want—but he tries. I would've given anything for that."
Simon doesn't respond. But I know my son. He typically would lob a sarcastic remark or say something rude if he didn’t really care.
I'm tearing up, my hand clamped over my mouth, crying as silently as humanly possible, which isn't very silent at all.
But the back door is closed and they can't hear me, and I let myself have this. Hoping against hope that someone can reach my son in a place I couldn't get to.
There's a long pause.
"I hear you think you're good at basketball." Chevy's tone is lighter, warmer, as if he's opening a window to let the heaviness out.
"Iamgood." Simon's voice is guarded, but curious.
"Bet I can kick your ass."
