building into a searing fire and burning me from the inside out. I hated feeling like this, feeling grief. It was no way to live, yet there was no recovering from it. No way out. Would this torture ever end?
Mom continued, her words stoking the fire. “Being angry and thinking about him all the time is part of the grieving process. But there comes a time when you have to move on.”
I turned on her enraged. “There’s nothing to grieve, Mom!” I exploded. “Don’t you see? He’s not dead!”
“Rett!” Her eyes warned me not to go any further.
Closing my eyes, I rocked back and forth like a crazy person, overcome by pain. I wanted to scream but instead bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. “I know you and Dad want to move on. I do too,” I slowly said.
“Exactly. It’s time for us all to move on.”
This was killing me, but I couldn’t lie anymore. “No, Mom. What I’m saying is different. I can’t give up on him that easily. I can’t just ‘move on’ and act like nothing bad ever happened. He’s out there somewhere — alive.”
Her queer expression reminded me why I’d never attempted to explain my side of things, why I’d refused to talk about it for the past six months. Her eyes were angry fire and her mouth contorted into an awkward, crooked line. I braced myself.
“What do you think? That I want to give up on him? That I want to believe my son is dead? ” she seethed.
“No, Mom. I don’t,” I quickly retreated.
I knew this would happen. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to make Mom cry. She didn’t understand.
“I can’t stand it either — to live without Benson. To see you crying all the time. To see Dad revert into a recluse. To live with this deep ache inside. To feel dead, as if a crucial part of me is missing.”
Mom burst into tears. I’d really done it now. I wrapped my arms around her tiny shoulders. She pushed away, but I held her tighter. She broke, melting into violent sobs, her hot tears penetrated my shirt, her loud, breathless cry tearing at my insides. The pain welled up inside me, yet I held back knowing if I started crying, neither of us would ever stop.
What hurt more: Actually losing Benson or the pain Mom, Dad, and I experienced because of it? I couldn’t decide. Why did bad things like this happen? It was wrong.
Why, Dio? Why did this to happen to me and my family? I don’t get it. I don’t think I ever will.
It killed me to see Mom like this — only a shadow of the woman she used to be. I’d spent many sleepless nights trying to remember who we used to be. Mom had been so vibrant, beautiful, and full of life — a beacon of love and comfort. Now tragedy had stripped her of all this, leaving her an empty shell. Though she was an excellent pretender, expertly portraying who she used to be, moments like these made it clear she was dying inside like the rest of us.
Dad reacted oppositely of Mom. He didn’t hide his feelings, but lashed out, eventually hiding away when he realized all of us were avoiding him. He became a hermit, cutting back work hours at the hospital to spend time in his beloved garage, inventing stupid odds and ends that would never do anybody any good. On the rare occasion that he emerged, no one spoke to him for fear of getting their head chewed off.
I held Mom close, rocking her and rubbing her back — comforting her as she used to with me when I was a boy and had skinned a knee or lost a wrestling match to Benson. Her crying minimized to a miniscule whimper, and finally ceased altogether.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I apologized, my throat aching from holding back tears.
“Don’t be,” she said, pulling back. “I’m sorry for not validating your feelings. I don’t take them into consideration enough.” She forced a smile, despite the pain in her eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with your thoughts. I know it was hard for you to do.” She paused before adding, “I can tell them you need more time. They’ll
Mom continued, her words stoking the fire. “Being angry and thinking about him all the time is part of the grieving process. But there comes a time when you have to move on.”
I turned on her enraged. “There’s nothing to grieve, Mom!” I exploded. “Don’t you see? He’s not dead!”
“Rett!” Her eyes warned me not to go any further.
Closing my eyes, I rocked back and forth like a crazy person, overcome by pain. I wanted to scream but instead bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. “I know you and Dad want to move on. I do too,” I slowly said.
“Exactly. It’s time for us all to move on.”
This was killing me, but I couldn’t lie anymore. “No, Mom. What I’m saying is different. I can’t give up on him that easily. I can’t just ‘move on’ and act like nothing bad ever happened. He’s out there somewhere — alive.”
Her queer expression reminded me why I’d never attempted to explain my side of things, why I’d refused to talk about it for the past six months. Her eyes were angry fire and her mouth contorted into an awkward, crooked line. I braced myself.
“What do you think? That I want to give up on him? That I want to believe my son is dead? ” she seethed.
“No, Mom. I don’t,” I quickly retreated.
I knew this would happen. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to make Mom cry. She didn’t understand.
“I can’t stand it either — to live without Benson. To see you crying all the time. To see Dad revert into a recluse. To live with this deep ache inside. To feel dead, as if a crucial part of me is missing.”
Mom burst into tears. I’d really done it now. I wrapped my arms around her tiny shoulders. She pushed away, but I held her tighter. She broke, melting into violent sobs, her hot tears penetrated my shirt, her loud, breathless cry tearing at my insides. The pain welled up inside me, yet I held back knowing if I started crying, neither of us would ever stop.
What hurt more: Actually losing Benson or the pain Mom, Dad, and I experienced because of it? I couldn’t decide. Why did bad things like this happen? It was wrong.
Why, Dio? Why did this to happen to me and my family? I don’t get it. I don’t think I ever will.
It killed me to see Mom like this — only a shadow of the woman she used to be. I’d spent many sleepless nights trying to remember who we used to be. Mom had been so vibrant, beautiful, and full of life — a beacon of love and comfort. Now tragedy had stripped her of all this, leaving her an empty shell. Though she was an excellent pretender, expertly portraying who she used to be, moments like these made it clear she was dying inside like the rest of us.
Dad reacted oppositely of Mom. He didn’t hide his feelings, but lashed out, eventually hiding away when he realized all of us were avoiding him. He became a hermit, cutting back work hours at the hospital to spend time in his beloved garage, inventing stupid odds and ends that would never do anybody any good. On the rare occasion that he emerged, no one spoke to him for fear of getting their head chewed off.
I held Mom close, rocking her and rubbing her back — comforting her as she used to with me when I was a boy and had skinned a knee or lost a wrestling match to Benson. Her crying minimized to a miniscule whimper, and finally ceased altogether.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I apologized, my throat aching from holding back tears.
“Don’t be,” she said, pulling back. “I’m sorry for not validating your feelings. I don’t take them into consideration enough.” She forced a smile, despite the pain in her eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with your thoughts. I know it was hard for you to do.” She paused before adding, “I can tell them you need more time. They’ll
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