Three months before the funeral, I’d noticed the change in my son. It started small—he stopped talking about school, stopped inviting friends over. Mikey had always been quiet, more comfortable with his books and sketch pads than with other kids, but this was different. This was withdrawal.
“Everything okay at school?” I asked one night while we washed dishes together—one of our routines since his mom left when he was eight.
“Fine,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the plate he was drying.
“Made any new friends in high school?” I tried again.
His shoulders tensed slightly. “Not really.”
I should have pushed harder. Should have seen the signs. But I was working double shifts that month—Jenkins was out with back surgery, and I was covering his sector of the school too. By the time I’d finish my rounds, check all the classrooms, and make sure everything was locked up tight, I was dead on my feet.
Still, I noticed the bruises. A scrape on his cheek one Tuesday. A split lip the following week.
“Basketball in gym,” he explained when I asked.
“Tripped on the stairs,” he said another time.
I believed him because I wanted to. Because the alternative meant failing him, and I’d already done enough of that when his mother left.
