He kicked one heel lightly against the bed frame.
“Two people say goodnight faster than one.”
I had to look away.
He noticed.
“Mom?”
“I’m okay, sweetie,” I said.
“Two people say goodnight faster than one.”
He studied my face.
Then he did something I’d seen a hundred times.
He smiled.
A huge, ridiculous smile.
Exactly like the selfie he’d sent me.
I sat back on my heels, holding his tiny wrists.
“Toby, why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“That smile.”
His smile vanished.
“Toby, why do you always do that?”
I picked up his phone from the desk.
Opened our message thread.
There they were.
Selfie after selfie.
Goofy eyes.
Thumbs-up.
Tongue out.
Fake mustache drawn on his finger.
Whenever Julian traveled.
Whenever I ran an errand.
Whenever I texted: Everything okay?
I picked up his phone from the desk.
I had read those photos as proof that Toby was confident, happy, and independent.
“Why do you send me these?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Because they’re funny.”
“Only that?”
His fingers twisted the hem of his shirt.
Then he said, “You stop worrying when I look happy.”
I had read those photos as proof that Toby was confident, happy, and independent.
I forgot how to breathe for a second.
“What if you don’t look happy?”
“Then you ask what’s wrong.”
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