And I kept my discomfort to myself because that’s what people do when the person making them uneasy is labeled “family.”
But my son changed.
He got quieter.
He stopped running to the door when I came home.
He started having nightmares.
He started apologizing for things he didn’t do.
One night he clung to my leg so hard I felt his nails through my jeans.
“Please don’t go,” he whispered. “Please.”
I leaned down. “Why, buddy?”
He looked up at me with eyes that were too old for his face.
“Because Grandpa comes when you’re not here.”
My wife heard him and immediately jumped in.
“He’s just trying to keep you home,” she said. “He’s dramatic. He misses you.”
My son didn’t look dramatic.
He looked scared.
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