Chapter Nine: In the Silence, I Sharpened My Knives

                                        

                                              
​I returned home to stillness.​
The nanny opened the door, her eyes tired but gentle. " Only Jimmy is still awake," she murmured. "Didn't want to sleep till you got home."​
I thanked her softly and went upstairs. The hallway was dim. Jimmy's door was cracked open, a soft golden light spilling through.​
Inside, he was on his stomach across the bed, sketchpad open, pencil dancing across the page in quick, practiced movements. The room smelled faintly of graphite and cedarwood from his diffuser. Comfort. Safe.​
He looked up when I entered, his brown curls falling into his eyes. "Hey, Mom."​
"Hey, sweetheart," I said, my voice quieter than usual.​
I walked in and sat at the foot of the bed. He didn't stop drawing—he never did, not even when he was talking. His hand moved in wide, sure strokes. I glanced at the paper: he was sketching waves. Violent, curling, beautiful.​
"You're home late," he said casually, but I could hear the edge in it. The question buried underneath.​
"I know," I said. "Rough night."​
He nodded, still not looking up.​
"You okay?" he asked after a second. His voice cracked a little on okay, like he wasn't sure how much he really wanted the answer.​
"I will be," I said.​
He was quiet a moment, shading in a shadow beneath a rocky cliff.​
"You're good at pretending things are fine," he said finally.​
That hit harder than anything else tonight.​
I didn't speak. Just looked at him. My boy.​
He kept drawing, a little more focused now. Still not looking at me. He finally looked up. His eyes were soft and serious.​
"You don't have to be strong every second. I'm not a little kid anymore, Mom. You can be real with me."​
I felt the air leave my lungs.​
I reached over, brushing the curls from his forehead. He ducked his head, a little shy, and smiled.​
"I know you're not" I whispered.​
"Good," he said, returning to his sketch.​
I kissed the top of his head and sat there for a while longer, watching him draw. Letting his words settle in me like balm on a wound I hadn't realized was still bleeding.​
Eventually, I stood and told him to get some rest. He gave me a little salute with his pencil and grinned.​
"Night, Mom."​
"Goodnight, baby."​

Before I turned to leave, his voice, soft and uncertain, reached me:​
"Do you need a hug, Mom?"​
My breath caught. That was my line. My armor cracked.​
"Yeah, baby," I whispered.​
He rose, feet padding across the floor, and wrapped his arms around me—tight, brief, and full of grace. Then, without a word, he returned to his bed, as if nothing had happened.​
He'll never know what that hug did. How it stitched the torn edges of my heart. How it reminded me that even in the depths of despair, love endures.​
In that simple embrace, my child gave me the strength to face another day.