“Handle it how, Mason?” I asked him one night. “You barely sleep. You barely eat dinner with me anymore.”
He had only smiled, the way a person smiles when they know something you don’t.
“Trust me, Mom. Just a little longer.”
For weeks he had been hunched over his laptop after school, typing, clicking, building something I was never allowed to see.
The way a person smiles when they know something you don’t.
Every time I walked in, he would close the screen with a calm little click.
“School project,” he always said.
“For which class?” I asked once.
“You’ll see.”
I told myself it was good that he had a project. I told myself a lot of things.