So, he decided to pick up and move. Nothing was worth keeping. Not the pencils his mom bought him. Not the science notebook that we worked so hard to fill. Nothing. Empty. He “threw” it all away.
But not really. He could have put it in the nasty garbage full of breakfast scraps and snotty tissues. He could have ripped, cut, and maimed everything (remember, he has). Instead, he stuck his things in storage. Kept safe under a bedding of papers in our blue recycling bin.
Today seemed like it was going to be another yesterday. A day where he made himself miserable in an attempt to make me hurt like he was hurting. Until I offered to write for him. He spoke, I recorded. “What next?” I asked. “Anything else?” He had plenty to say. Not in his whiny voice of anger, but his voice. The one that said, “I know this. I’m willing to try.”
So, he retrieved his things. I guess he’s going to give it another shot. Each wrinkled paper on his desk a sign of mutual forgiveness.