I walked away. With tremendous difficulty, I walked away and went to bed. I could hear my son through the wall, muttering to himself, punching his pillows, and, agonizingly, crying.
In the morning, my son told me that he had decided to go to his father’s. My heart sank, because it wasn’t the best choice. But it was my son’s choice. And so begins the long, slow process of letting him come to terms with who his father is, on his own.
