sat down.
His shoulders collapsed.
“I was scared.”
I looked at him.
“Of what?”
“Failing.”
I didn’t speak.
“I thought if I told you how bad things were, you’d think I was a failure.”
“So you pretended everything was fine.”
“Yes.”
“And let me pay for it.”
He nodded.
I sat across from him.
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
“You could have asked.”
“I know.”
“You could have said, ‘Mom, I need help.’”
His eyes filled.
“I was ashamed.”
I believed him.
That didn’t excuse it.
But for the first time that day, I understood him.
My son hadn’t become cruel overnight.
He had become dependent slowly.
One payment.
One excuse.
One emergency.
One lie at a time.
And I had helped build the habit.
Every time I rescued him without asking questions, I taught him that there would always be another rescue.
Genevieve stood.
“This is ridiculous.”
