When Mason decided to live with his father after the divorce, I tried to honor his choice, hoping it would help rebuild their relationship. At first, things seemed fine—late-night pancakes, silly selfies, and updates that made me believe he was settling in well. I told myself his happiness mattered more than my quiet ache.
Gradually, those cheerful messages stopped. Texts grew shorter, then infrequent, and eventually disappeared. Teachers reached out about missing assignments and his sudden distancing in class. Something wasn’t right, and this didn’t feel like a typical teenage phase.
I tried checking in gently, asking open-ended questions, but his replies were clipped and careful. One rainy afternoon, I drove to his school to see him in person. As he walked toward my car, shoulders low and eyes drained, he began to share the truth.
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