His wristband looked too big on his arm.
He turned his face toward me and whispered, “Are you going to jail?”
I sat beside the bed and took his hand.
“No,” I said. “And neither are you.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
“Mom said you would.”
“Mom was wrong.”
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Then he asked, “Can I tell the truth now?”
The question nearly broke me.
Not because of what it meant for Vanessa.
Because of what it meant he had been carrying.
I leaned close enough that he did not have to raise his voice.
“Yes,” I said. “You can tell the truth now. And I will stay right here while you do.”
He cried then.
Real crying.
Messy, scared, exhausted crying.
No rules.
No holding it behind his teeth.
No checking the doorway first.
I stayed with him until his breathing evened out.
