He shrugged, “I’m just tired of waiting. Dad would understand.”
“Dad isn’t here, Michael. And buying you a car won’t solve everything. What about the expenses that come with it? Insurance, maintenance…” I trailed off, hoping he would understand.
He remained silent for a moment before pushing his plate away, “Forget it, Mom. You’ll never understand.”
As he left the table, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, wondering if I was being too harsh or if I was failing as a parent somehow.
Days turned into weeks, and the tension in the house only seemed to escalate. Michael became more distant, spending most of his time out with friends or locked up in his room.
One Saturday morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter:
“Mom, I’m going to stay with Dad for a while. I can’t stand being here anymore. Maybe he’ll understand me better.”
My heart sank as I read the words. I knew this day might come, but I never thought it would happen like this.
I immediately dialed Michael’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Panic started to rise within me as I tried to think of where David lived now. We hadn’t been in touch for years after the divorce.
