But it wasn’t just his politeness. It was the gloves. They stayed on while he ate. Even as he moved the taco around on his plate, his fingers never touched it directly. He used a napkin to pick it up instead, like he was afraid of getting his hands dirty. He seemed to always control the environment around him, as if trying to stay in charge of something, even if it was just how he ate.
At first, I thought it was some kind of weird teenager thing. Sensory issues maybe. Some kids developed odd habits after experiencing difficult things. I didn’t know the specifics of his life before this, but I knew enough to know it wasn’t easy. I told myself to be patient. But the gloves were becoming a symbol, something more than just an accessory. They felt like a wall between him and the world.
Later that night, as Lila watered her herbs on the patio, I watched Nate. He sat on the back step, his back straight, his hands tucked safely inside those gloves. It was as if he was afraid of everything—of us, of the world, of the idea that maybe here, in this quiet suburban house, he didn’t have to be afraid.
“You settling in okay?” I asked, trying to break the silence.
“Yes, sir,” he answered again, before quickly correcting himself. “Yes, Uncle.”
I smiled. “Good. It’s quiet here. Maybe too quiet, but it’s safe.”
Nate nodded, not really listening. His eyes were on the lawn, distant, lost in thought.
I paused, and then gently asked, “The gloves… You don’t have to wear them here, you know. This is your home for the summer too.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked to his hands, then back to the lawn. “It’s nothing,” he said. “My hands just get cold. It helps.”
I could’ve pressed him for more. I could’ve asked why a fifteen-year-old was still wearing gloves when the temperature was pushing eighty degrees. I could’ve asked about the way he acted like the gloves were a shield, something to hide behind. But Lila was still on the patio, watching us with the kind of hope that made my stomach churn. I didn’t want to start a fight over something that might not even matter.
So I let it go.
The next few days passed in a strange kind of rhythm, a quiet pulse that marked the days of summer. Nate stayed in his routine, the gloves never coming off, not even when we sat on the couch and watched TV. His hands remained hidden in the leather, even when he helped Lila with the laundry or folded his clothes in the guest room. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. But every time I tried to bring it up, he would give me the same answer: “My hands just get cold.”
It was almost as if he was rehearsing the line. Perfectly measured, perfectly controlled.
One night, just after dinner, Lila and I were cleaning up the kitchen. The sound of Nate’s voice came from the living room. He was watching something on TV, but there was a strain in his words, something off. He was talking to himself in a low murmur, as if he needed to hear his own voice to remind himself that he was still here.
I finished loading the dishwasher and went into the living room to check on him. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the background. Nate sat in the corner of the couch, his hands tucked into his gloves, fingers twitching as he gripped the fabric of the couch.
I paused in the doorway. He didn’t notice me standing there, and for a moment, I almost didn’t want him to. There was a certain comfort in just watching him, in observing the way he tried to disappear into the cushions, as if the world around him was too much to handle.
But then, the sound of running water reached my ears.
