“You’re safe now. You did the right thing coming inside.”
He looked up at me with the biggest, saddest eyes I had ever seen on him.
His voice barely came out.
“Mom… are we allowed to laugh outside anymore?”
The question hit me like a slap.
“Mom… are we allowed to laugh outside anymore?”
For a full second, I couldn’t breathe.
“What did you say, baby?”
“Laughing. Playing. Are we allowed?” He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. “You keep telling us to be quiet. I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”
Every warning, every whispered “shhh” I had ever given him rushed back at once.
I had done this.
“I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”
I had taught my own child that joy was something dangerous.
I pulled him into my arms and held him tight.
“Listen to me. You are allowed to laugh. You are allowed to play. You are allowed to be a kid in your own home. Do you understand me?”
He sniffled against my shoulder and nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
Six months of shrinking my family into a whisper caught fire inside my chest at once.
He didn’t look convinced.
“Stay right here,” I told him. “Sit at the table. I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the back door with slow, deliberate steps.
My hand rested on the knob for one long second while I made a decision I had been avoiding for half ..
