I didn’t ask him to call me Mom again.
I simply said, “Want to go home?”
He looked at me.
Two taps against the courthouse railing.
Yes.
We started toward the car.
Halfway across the parking lot, I felt something catch my sleeve.
I stopped.
Alan stood behind me.
His mouth opened.
My heart jumped despite every promise I’d made myself.
He swallowed.
Then, in the same rough voice, he said, “Emily.”
It was strange hearing my name from him.
Beautiful.
Painful.
Five years of notes and taps suddenly existed beside a sound I’d never known.
I turned completely toward him.
“Yeah?”
His forehead creased.
He seemed frustrated.
The next word would not come.
I waited.
He tried again.
Nothing.
His breathing quickened.
I shook my head.
“You don’t have to.”
His eyes closed.
Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out his notebook, and wrote furiously.
He turned it toward me.
I HAVE BEEN TRYING FOR WEEKS.
My throat tightened.
“I know.”
His eyes widened.
“I heard you one night.”
He looked horrified.
I smiled through tears.
“I didn’t tell anybody.”
He stared at me.
“You asked me not to.”
His shoulders dropped.
He wrote again.
I THOUGHT IF I DIDN’T SAY IT THE JUDGE WOULDN’T BELIEVE ME.
There it was.
Exactly what I had feared.
I stepped closer but did not touch him.
“Alan, listen to me.”
He looked up.
“You never have to hurt yourself to prove you love me.”
His mouth tightened.
“Not ever.”
He looked down.
“And if speaking hurts or scares you, you don’t have to do it again tomorrow.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Or next week. Or ever.”
He wrote:
BUT I WANT TO SOMETIMES.
I read the sentence.
Then looked at him.
“Okay.”
His brow furrowed, like he expected something larger.
