Then he walked past me and into his old bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
Now I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the empty hallway, replaying every bedtime story, every school event, every moment I chose silence instead of truth.
I wanted to protect him.
But protection can become control when it hides reality.
When he’s ready to talk again, I won’t defend myself.
I won’t justify.
I’ll tell him everything.
About the fear.
About the insecurity.
About how loving him sometimes felt like standing on the edge of losing him.
I don’t know if he will forgive me.
I only know this:
I never stopped loving him.
And if love means anything at all, it means staying—even when you’re the one who made the mistake.
Even when the truth hurts.
Even when forgiveness isn’t guaranteed.
