PART 4
The next morning my phone exploded.
For the first time, the messages weren’t arrogant.
They were terrified.
Mom:
Sarah, call me immediately.
Kara:
You’ve taken this way too far.
Dad:
The police are involved now. Please fix this.
Fix this.
The words made me laugh.
For thirty-eight years, I had been fixing everything.
Cleaning up messes.
Making excuses.
Being the reasonable daughter.
The peacemaker.
The one who swallowed every insult.
Not anymore.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I met with a family attorney.
Then I met with a child therapist.
The therapist listened carefully as Elliot described sitting alone near the exit.
Waiting.
Watching families leave.
Believing everyone had forgotten him.
At one point she quietly removed her glasses.
She looked angry.
Professionally angry.
Which somehow felt worse.
When the evaluation was finished, she handed me a report.
“Your son experienced significant emotional distress.”
I already knew.
I’d seen it.
For weeks afterward, Elliot wouldn’t let me out of his sight.
He followed me room to room.
He woke up crying.
He checked to make sure I was still home.
Every single night.
