Chapter 10
A year later.
Almost to the day.
August again.
I’m sitting on a bench at Noah’s baseball game.
He’s pitching today.
He’s nine now.
Taller. Stronger. Louder.
The bruise on his cheek is long gone.
The nightmares are rare now.
He still goes to therapy once a month, just to check in.
Dr. Marquez says he’s thriving.
Ryan is sitting next to me on the bench.
We’re not back together.
We never will be.
Too much happened.
Too many lies.
Too much pain.
But we’re friends.
Good friends.
Better friends than we ever were spouses, honestly.
He’s been sober for eight months.
He’s been in therapy every week for a year.
He volunteers at a center for male survivors of childhood abuse.
He’s writing a book about his experience.
His supervised visitation ended three months ago.
Now he has Noah every other weekend.
They go camping.
They play catch.
They build terrible birdhouses that fall apart in the rain.
And tonight, after the game, they’re going to a father-son campout.
Noah has been talking about it for weeks.
The pitcher before Noah walks off the mound.
The coach calls his name.
Noah runs out to the mound.
He looks over at us.
He waves.
We both wave back.
Ryan is wearing a shirt that says #1 DAD.
I made fun of him for it when he got here.
He told me to shut up.
Affectionately.
Noah winds up.
He throws.
*STRIKE ONE.*
The crowd cheers.
I look at Ryan.
He’s leaning forward, his hands clasped, his face full of pride.
He doesn’t look like the broken man who sat across from me in Starbucks a year ago.
He doesn’t look like the coward who stood in his mother’s dining room and told our son he was confused.
He looks whole.
Healed.
Or at least, healing.
We all are.
Noah strikes the first batter out.
Then the second.
Then the third.
He runs off the mound, his arms in the air.
Ryan and I both stand up and cheer.
He runs straight to us.
He hugs Ryan first.
Then me.
“Did you see that? Did you see the curveball I threw?”
“We saw it, buddy!” Ryan lifts him up and spins him around. “That was major league stuff!”
“Best curveball in the whole league,” I agree, wiping the dirt off his cheek.
The coach calls the team in for huddle.
Noah runs back to the dugout.
Ryan and I sit back down.
“Hey,” Ryan says, pulling an envelope out of his pocket. “I meant to give this to you earlier.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
I open it.
It’s a check.
For twenty thousand dollars.
Made out to the domestic violence shelter downtown.
In both our names.
“Ryan—this is too much.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. But it’s something. My dad left me some money when he died last spring. I wanted to do something good with it. Something that matters. For all the kids who aren’t as lucky as Noah. Who don’t have a mom like you to fight for them.”
I look at the check.
Then at him.
“He’s lucky he has you too, you know. The you that you are now.”
Ryan smiles.
That night, I help Noah pack for the campout.
Sleeping bag. Pillow. Flashlight. Bug spray. Too many marshmallows.
Ryan picks him up at 6:00.
They load the truck.
Noah runs back to me one more time.
He hugs me tight.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay without me, Mommy?”
“I’m gonna be great. You go have fun. And tell me every single thing when you get home. Okay?”
“Okay! I love you!”
“I love you too, baby. More than anything.”
He runs back to the truck.
He climbs in.
Ryan waves.
I wave back.
They drive away.
I stand in the driveway until the taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I go inside.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I walk to the kitchen.
I look at the wall by the table.
A year ago, that wall was covered in printed text messages. In evidence. In proof of the worst thing that had ever happened to my family.
Now it’s covered in baseball trophies. In school art projects. In photos of Noah smiling.
A photo of him and Ryan at the zoo.
A photo of me, Noah, and Emily at the beach last summer.
A photo of Noah on his ninth birthday, covered in chocolate cake.
I pour myself a glass of iced tea.
I sit down at the table.
I think about that day at Diane’s birthday party.
The slap.
The silence.
Noah’s small voice saying, Dad knows. He told me not to tell you.
I think about how close I came to losing everything.
How close I came to not believing him.
How many parents don’t believe their kids.
How many kids suffer in silence because no one will listen.
I take a sip of tea.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Ryan.
*Made it to the campsite. He’s already chasing a frog. Send help.*
Attached is a photo of Noah covered in mud, holding a very large, very unhappy-looking frog.
I laugh.
I text back.
*You’re on your own. Have fun. ❤️*
I put my phone down.
I look at the photos on the wall again.
Life isn’t perfect.
It never will be.
There are still hard days.
Days when Noah wakes up crying from a nightmare he can’t remember.
Days when Ryan calls me, upset, because something triggered a bad memory from his childhood.
Days when I look at the scar on Noah’s leg—the one from the wooden spoon—and I feel that old anger rise up in my chest.
But those days are fewer now.
And the good days?
The good days are brighter than I ever thought possible.
Because we survived.
All three of us.
Not in the way we’d planned.
Not as the perfect little family we’d set out to be.
But as something better.
Stronger.
More honest.
And Noah?
Noah is okay.
He’s more than okay.
He’s thriving.
He’s happy.
He’s safe.
And that’s all that ever really mattered.
I stand up.
I take my tea to the living room.
I turn on a movie I’ve been wanting to see.
I curl up on the couch.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I don’t feel like I’m holding my breath.
I just feel…
Peaceful.
Outside, the August sun sets over Chicago.
Somewhere, a siren wails in the distance.
Life goes on.
But tonight?
Tonight, my son is safe.
He’s happy.
He’s loved.
And tomorrow, he’ll come home with muddy shoes, a pocket full of rocks, and a hundred stories to tell me.
That’s enough.
That’s more than enough.
May you like
And for now?
For now, everything is exactly as it should be.
