Chapter 7
Leo stopped wanting birthday presents.
That frightened me.
The next morning, three wrapped boxes sat untouched in his playroom.
“Don’t want prize.”
My throat tightened.
He had connected gifts with the game.
Grandpa said he was the prize.
Adults laughed.
The bat swung.
Now boxes felt dangerous.
I sat on the floor beside him.
“They’re just presents.”
He looked suspicious.
“What happens?”
“Nothing.”
“No game?”
“No.”
He thought.
Then pushed one toward me.
“You open.”
So I did.
A toy dinosaur.
Leo watched carefully.
Nothing happened.
Second box.
Puzzle.
Nothing.
Third.
Cape.
He touched it.
Then smiled.
Tiny.
Good.
We did not finish all the gifts.
That would have turned healing into another assignment.
Later, he asked:
“Olivia bad?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“She hit post.”
“Yes.”
“She scare me.”
“Yes.”
Both could be true.
He looked down.
“Grandpa laugh.”
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
“Dad—”
He stopped.
I was Mom.
Fear had tangled his words.
I pulled him into my arms.
He whispered:
“Grandpa doesn’t like me.”
I did not lie.
“Grandpa made a cruel choice.”
“Because I cry?”
“No.”
I held him tighter.
May you like
“Because he cares too much about what crying looks like.”
That was the simplest truth I could give a four-year-old.
