Chapter 9 - The First Meet
The first swim meet was a Thursday evening in October.
I sat in the third row of the bleachers next to Caleb's mom, Marcia, who introduced herself in the parking lot and immediately put a homemade granola bar in my hand, which I accepted without a single question.
"First meet?" she asked.
"First everything," I said.
She nodded like she knew exactly what that meant.
The pool was loud and bright and smelled the way every pool has ever smelled. I watched the locker room door for ten minutes before the team finally came out.
Ethan was near the back of the group, talking to a teammate I didn't recognize, laughing at something. Swim cap in one hand, goggles pushed up on his forehead. He looked — I hunted for the word and the best one I found was easy. He looked easy. Like somebody who was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He scanned the bleachers, found me, and lifted one hand. I lifted mine back.
Marcia leaned over. "Which one's yours?"
"In the back. Tall. Just waved."
"Oh, he's been talking about you," she said. "Caleb says Ethan brings his mom up a lot. In a good way. Like she's somebody worth mentioning."
I looked back at the pool.
I'm not going to pretend I understood the scoring, or the strokes, or why some things earned points and others didn't. I understood none of it. I understood when he pushed off the wall, and when his hand slapped the far end, and when the people around me jumped up and started yelling, so I jumped up and yelled too.
He came in second in his first race. First in his second.
When it was over and the team filed back out, he found me by the exit, hair dripping, towel around his shoulders, still breathing hard.
"Well?" he said.
"I have no idea what I just watched," I said. "But I screamed a lot."
He grinned. "I heard you."
We walked out to the parking lot together, the four of us — me and Ethan, Caleb and Marcia. The night was cold and clear and the lot lights made everything look sharper than it was.
At the car, Ethan stopped.
"Mom."
"Yeah."
He looked at me. Not the way teenagers usually look at their parents, right through you toward whatever comes next. He actually looked at me.
"Thank you," he said. "For not letting it go. The note, the meeting, all of it. I said I was ready, but I wasn't sure I was. You were sure enough for both of us."
I put my hand against the side of his face for just a second, the way I used to when he was little.
"That's the job," I said.
He nodded and got in the car. I stood outside one more moment. The lot was emptying around us. Somewhere behind me, Marcia was laughing at something Caleb said.
I took a breath of the cold air. Then I got in, started the engine, and drove my son home.
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Some wounds take a long time to even name — and some kids carry them alone a lot longer than they ever should.
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