Please come talk to your father. He’s not well.
It hit me like a familiar hook—guilt disguised as concern.
Emily watched my face as I read it.
“No,” she said immediately.
“I know,” I said quietly.
But my mother’s text didn’t leave me alone. It sat in my mind because it reminded me of my childhood: my mother begging me to be the one who fixed things. To be the mediator. The bridge. The quiet boy who absorbed punches so everyone else could keep pretending.
I stared at the text, then did something I’d never done before.
I called my mother back.
She answered on the first ring, voice breathless. “Will?”
“Mom,” I said, steady, “I need to be clear.”
Her voice trembled. “He’s upset,” she whispered. “He doesn’t understand—”
“I understand,” I said. “He understands too. He just doesn’t like consequences.”
Silence.
Then my mother said softly, “I should’ve stopped him.”
“Yes,” I replied.
She inhaled sharply like the word hurt. “I know.”
“I’m not coming to talk to him,” I continued. “Not unless it’s with a therapist present. Not unless he apologizes without excuses. And not unless Amanda wants it.”
My mother’s voice cracked. “He’s your father.”
“And she’s my daughter,” I said.
Silence stretched.
Then my mother whispered, “Okay.”
I exhaled, surprised. “Okay?”
“I’ll tell him,” she said quietly.
