A few days passed without a visit.
I kept my routine as steady as I could.
I woke, made tea, checked my breathing, and handled the small tasks that needed attention.
Sometimes I read.
Sometimes I watched the street through the window.
Sometimes I sat at the kitchen table and let my thoughts settle before deciding what to do next.
Deacon and I exchanged a few short messages.
He asked whether I was feeling better.
I answered honestly.
He told me he hoped we could talk soon.
I said we could speak when we were both ready to have an honest conversation.
I did not add anything else.
It was strange to communicate with my son without trying to manage his reaction.
Every time I sent a short message, I felt the urge to explain more.
I wanted to soften the words.
I wanted to add a reminder that I loved him.
I wanted to reassure him that I was not trying to push him away.
Sometimes I did tell him I loved him.
But I stopped using those words as a way to erase the boundary I had just set.
Love did not need to be followed by an apology for having feelings.
One afternoon, I was sorting the mail when my phone rang.
Deacon's name appeared on the screen.
I answered.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hello."
He asked whether I had a few minutes to talk.
I said I did.
He sounded more careful than he had during our earlier calls.
He asked how I had been spending my time.
I told him about the errands I had handled and the small things I had done around the apartment.
He listened.
For several minutes, we spoke about ordinary matters.
He asked about a bill I had mentioned before.
I told him I had taken care of it.
He asked whether I was still having trouble with my breathing.
I told him some days were better than others.
Then he said he wanted to talk about what had happened.
I sat straighter in my chair.
"All right," I said.
He began by saying that the argument had gotten out of hand.
I waited.
He said he had been frustrated.
I waited again.
Then he said he was sorry I had been hurt.
The wording bothered me, though I could not immediately explain why.
It sounded as though my hurt had occurred separately from his action.
"I appreciate you saying that," I told him. "But I need you to be clear about what you're sorry for."
He was quiet.
"I've already said I was wrong."
"I know."
"Then what is this?"
"I'm asking you to acknowledge that you hit me."
"I did hit you."
"And that it was your choice."
He exhaled sharply.
"Mom, I don't know why we have to go over every word."
"Because the words matter."
He said he had not wanted to hurt me.
I believed it was possible that he had not planned to strike me before the argument.
But a lack of planning did not erase responsibility.
"I am not asking you to tell me what you intended," I said. "I am asking you to acknowledge what you did."
He went quiet again.
For a moment, I thought the call might end.
Instead, he said he knew he should not have hit me.
The sentence was direct.
It was more than he had said before.
I felt my shoulders relax slightly.
"Thank you for saying that," I replied.
He asked whether that meant I was ready to come over.
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
He had acknowledged something important, but he wanted an immediate result.
"I am glad you said it," I told him. "I still need time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know yet."
He made a frustrated sound.
I waited for the argument to begin.
Instead, he asked what I needed from him.
The question surprised me.
I took a moment before answering.
"I need to know that you can be angry without making me afraid of you."
He did not interrupt.
"I need to be able to tell you when something affects my health without being insulted or struck. And if you do something wrong, I need you to take responsibility without turning it into a fight about my reaction."
He remained quiet.
I could hear a faint sound in the background.
Then he said he understood what I was asking.
I wanted to believe him.
But I had learned that understanding could not be measured by the words someone used during one conversation.
It had to be seen in what they did afterward.
"I hope you do," I said.
He asked whether I was still angry with him.
I thought about the question.
"Yes, some of the time," I answered. "I'm also sad. I love you. Those feelings can all exist together."
He did not respond immediately.
Then he said he did not want me to hate him.
"I don't hate you, Deacon."
"Then why does it feel like you do?"
"Because I am not pretending everything is fine."
He was quiet.
I could hear him breathing.
I wanted to make the silence easier for him.
I wanted to say something reassuring.
Instead, I gave him time to think.
Finally, he said he needed to go.
We ended the call politely.
I sat at the table for a long while afterward.
I was not certain that anything had changed.
But the conversation had been different.
For once, I had not spent the entire call defending myself.
I had told him what I needed.
He had listened, at least for part of the conversation.
That did not mean I was ready to visit him.
It did mean I could recognize a small step without pretending it was the final one.
I put the phone down and returned to the mail.
There were two bills and an advertisement.
I sorted them into their proper places.
Then I took a cloth and wiped the table.
The cardboard beneath the leg was still visible.
I thought about replacing it with something more permanent.
For years, I had treated temporary repairs as good enough because they allowed me to carry on.
Sometimes that was sensible.
Sometimes it only postponed the work that really needed doing.
I did not yet know which description fit my relationship with Deacon.
I knew that I could not repair it by myself.
He would have to do his share.
That evening, I did not check my phone every few minutes.
I put it on the counter while I prepared dinner.
I ate at the table and cleaned up afterward.
When the phone finally lit up, I finished washing my hands before picking it up.
The message was from Deacon.
He said he had been thinking about our conversation.
He wrote that he knew he had hurt me and that he should not have done it.
I read the message slowly.
It was not everything I needed to hear.
But it was a clearer acknowledgment than I had received before.
I replied that I appreciated him taking the time to think about it.
Then I stopped.
I did not promise a visit.
I did not declare that everything was repaired.
I let his words stand on their own.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I felt a mixture of hope and caution.
I wanted our relationship to improve.
I wanted to be able to sit with my son again without remembering the slap every time he moved his hand.
But I knew that trust would take more than a few messages.
It would take time.
It would take honesty.
It would take behavior that matched the words.
I turned off the light and lay down.
For the first time in several days, I felt that a conversation with Deacon had left room for something better.
I did not know whether he would follow through.
I did not need to decide that night.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: When My Son Finally Acknowledged the Hurt He Had Caused, I Had to Learn That Forgiveness and Trust Were Not the Same Thing
I Thought My Son Would Protect Me, Until I Asked His Wife for One Small Favor in Their Kitchen
Part 15 of 20
