The next morning, I woke before my alarm.
My cheek had nearly returned to its usual color, but the memory of Deacon's hand was still clear.
I got out of bed and opened the curtains.
The light was pale and soft, and the street below was already waking up.
For a moment, I stood by the window without thinking about my son.
Then I remembered his words from the night before.
He had admitted that hitting me was wrong.
I had wanted to hear those words.
Part of me had felt relieved when he finally said them.
But the relief had not lasted.
He had said them as if he were giving me something I had asked for too many times.
He had wanted me to accept the sentence and stop talking.
I could not pretend that had repaired what happened.
I went to the kitchen and made tea.
The cardboard under the table leg had slipped again, so I pushed it back into place with my foot before sitting down.
I took my phone from the counter.
There was a message from Deacon.
He had written that he hoped I was feeling better and that we could put the whole thing behind us.
I read the message carefully.
The first part sounded considerate.
The second part sounded familiar.
He wanted the incident to be finished because he was tired of discussing it.
He had not asked what I needed.
He had not asked whether I was still frightened of being around him.
He had not asked what he could do to help me feel safe again.
I put the phone beside my tea.
I did not want to dismiss the possibility that he might be trying, however clumsily.
But I also did not want to reward a small change in wording by pretending the larger problem had disappeared.
I finished my tea before replying.
I told him I appreciated him asking how I felt.
I also told him that I needed more than a quick agreement that the slap had been wrong.
I said I wanted us to have a relationship where I could speak honestly without being afraid of his reaction.
Then I put the phone down.
I had no idea how he would receive that message.
I only knew it was true.
I spent the rest of the morning doing the things I had planned.
I checked the calendar.
I organized a few bills.
I wiped the kitchen counter and put the clean dishes away.
The apartment was small, and there was never much room to spread things out.
Still, I liked knowing where everything belonged.
The little table had been with me for years.
Its surface had scratches from school projects and marks from hot cups.
I had once considered replacing it.
Instead, I kept using it because it was still useful.
I wondered whether I had treated my relationship with Deacon the same way.
I had kept trying to repair something because it had once been good.
I had remembered the early years, when he would come home from school and tell me about his day.
I had remembered his small hand in mine when we crossed the street.
I had remembered the way he used to bring me drawings he had made.
Those memories were real.
They did not make the slap less real.
I could love the child he had been and still hold the man he had become responsible for his actions.
That thought stayed with me as I folded the dish towel and hung it beside the sink.
Around lunchtime, my phone rang.
Deacon was calling.
I answered.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hello, Deacon."
He sounded calmer than he had during our earlier conversations.
He asked how my breathing was.
I told him it was manageable, although I was still taking it easy.
He asked whether I had been to see anyone about it.
I told him I was paying attention to my health and following the care I had already been given.
He said he was glad.
For a moment, the conversation felt almost ordinary.
I could hear the familiar voice of my son without immediately bracing myself for another argument.
Then he said he wanted us to move forward.
"I want that, too," I told him.
"Then let's agree not to keep bringing up what happened."
I looked at the window.
Outside, a car was waiting at the intersection.
A pedestrian crossed in front of it.
"Deacon, I can't promise that."
He sighed.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what moving forward will look like yet."
"We can't stay stuck in the past."
"I agree. But moving forward doesn't mean pretending the past didn't happen."
He became quiet.
I waited for him to respond.
"I already told you it was wrong," he said.
"I heard you."
"Then why isn't that enough?"
"Because I need to know that you understand what it means for me to feel safe around you."
He said I was making the situation bigger than it had to be.
I felt the familiar pressure to explain myself until he was satisfied.
Instead, I stayed with the question.
"What do you think would help me feel safe, Deacon?"
He did not answer.
I could hear him shifting the phone.
After a few seconds, he said he did not know.
That was the first honest answer I had heard from him in several days.
I did not rush to fill the silence.
"I don't know either," I said. "But I know we cannot fix it by acting as though nothing happened."
He told me he had to get back to something.
I said goodbye.
After the call, I sat down at the table.
I was disappointed, but I was not surprised.
I had spent years hoping that if I asked the right question, my son would suddenly understand everything I had been trying to tell him.
I was beginning to accept that understanding was his responsibility.
I could explain my feelings.
I could describe the effect his actions had on me.
I could tell him what I would and would not accept.
I could not make him care about those things.
That afternoon, I went through the small drawer where I kept my medical papers.
I checked the dates on a few documents and put them in order.
The work reminded me that my health needed attention regardless of what happened with Deacon.
My lungs had been damaged long before the argument in Sloan's kitchen.
I had already been warned to avoid smoke.
I had every right to ask for that basic consideration.
I did not need to defend the request again.
When I finished organizing the papers, I put them in a folder and returned the folder to the drawer.
Then I sat beside the window with a book.
I read several pages before realizing I had not checked my phone for nearly an hour.
The discovery pleased me.
It meant I was learning to let my day belong to me again.
Later, I received another message from Deacon.
He wrote that he hoped we could have dinner together soon.
He did not mention the slap.
He did not mention our conversation.
He simply asked whether I would come over sometime that week.
I read the message twice.
I missed sitting with my son.
I missed hearing him talk about ordinary things.
I missed the possibility of being together without every sentence becoming a test.
But I was not ready to return to the house where he had struck me.
I typed that I was not ready to visit yet.
I told him I needed more time.
He replied with a brief question asking how much time I needed.
I could not give him a date.
I did not know how long it would take to feel comfortable around him again.
I told him I would contact him when I was ready to discuss a visit.
Then I put the phone away.
I felt guilty for a while.
That guilt came from an old belief that a good mother should make herself available whenever her child wanted her.
But Deacon was an adult.
He could wait for a visit.
He could sit with the discomfort of knowing that his actions had changed something between us.
I had waited through plenty of discomfort to protect him.
It was not unreasonable to ask him to do the same.
Before bed, I checked the front door lock.
I turned off the kitchen light and placed my phone on the nightstand.
The room was quiet.
I still hoped my son would learn to take responsibility without treating it as an attack on him.
I still hoped we could find a better way to speak to each other.
But I was no longer willing to make that hope depend on ignoring what he had done.
I lay down and adjusted my pillow.
Then I closed my eyes.
I did not know when Deacon and I would have dinner together again.
For the first time, I understood that I did not have to decide that night.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: When I Refused to Promise a Visit, I Discovered How Quickly My Son Could Turn His Disappointment Into Another Demand
I Thought My Son Would Protect Me, Until I Asked His Wife for One Small Favor in Their Kitchen
Part 13 of 20
