Caleb made an effort with him. He was polite. Respectful. He said, “Thanks for the ride,” and “Yes, sir,” and never gave either of us the kind of teenage attitude people warn you about.
But Patrick never liked when Caleb mentioned his father.
It was never loud or obvious. Just a shift in his expression. A pause. A tightness around his face. Then he would steer the conversation elsewhere like he was helping everyone.
During Caleb’s senior year, something shifted.
He stopped putting college letters on the fridge.
He stopped bringing up scholarships.
At dinner, whenever I asked about graduation plans, he only said, “I’m handling it.”
One afternoon, I found him in the garage with a torn envelope in his hand.
When he saw me, he pushed it beneath a pile of old paint cans.
I said, “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Too fast. Too empty.
I should have stayed. I should have asked him again. Instead, I let myself believe it was stress.
