For years, I felt like I had won the children's lottery with Frank.
He was the boy who actually used his coaster and volunteered to clear the table without a heavy sigh.
I never had to nag him about his grades. Not once. His report cards arrived in his backpack, and every box was marked with an A. The comments were always the same: He's a pleasure to have in class. A natural leader.
Then my husband became ill.
I felt like I'd won the children's lottery with Frank.
Everything has changed, but Frank hasn't changed.
Or at least, I thought he hadn't changed.
While the hospital machines whistled and beeped, Frank sat in a corner of the room with an exercise book.
"Have you finished your homework, little one?" his father asked him one afternoon. His voice was thin, but he was still trying to tease.
Frank looked up and nodded. "All of them."
My husband smiled. He was so proud of our boy.
Everything has changed, but Frank hasn't changed.
A few nights later, after we returned from the hospital, I stood in front of the kitchen sink, staring at a pile of dishes. I don't remember cooking or eating.
I turned on the tap and watched the water flow onto a plate. My hands began to tremble.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no loud sobbing, just a silent unraveling, like a thread coming loose from a sweater.
I gripped the edge of the counter and tried to breathe.
Behind me, I heard the soft scraping of a chair.
There was no loud sobbing, just a silent unraveling.
" Mom ? "
I quickly wiped my face. "I'm fine, Frank."
He didn't argue. He just walked up to me and grabbed the cloth.
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