I expected one of her tight smiles.
I expected Eli to be quiet for an hour before he became himself again.
I did not expect him to walk toward me like every step hurt.
The summer air smelled like cut grass and hot pavement.
Somewhere down the block, a lawn mower coughed once and died.
The sudden silence made the scrape of Eli’s sneakers across my driveway sound too loud.
He moved slowly, one hand gripping his backpack strap so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
His cheeks were blotchy.
His eyes looked swollen.
His jaw was locked like he was holding a scream behind his teeth.
Vanessa did not get out of the car.
She rolled the window down halfway and called across the front yard, “He’s being dramatic again, Michael. Don’t feed into it.”
Then she looked through the windshield at our son.
It was not the look of a mother checking whether her child was okay.
