They met at a burger place Mark swore was Tim’s favorite, neutral ground, low stakes. Tim shook her hand like an adult would, which struck her as both endearing and a little sad for a thirteen-year-old. He answered her questions politely — school was fine, he played football, no favorite subject — but volunteered nothing extra.
“He’s like this with everyone at first,” Mark said afterward, apologetic. “Give him time.” Julia didn’t mind. She remembered being thirteen and hating every adult who tried too hard, so she didn’t try too hard either. She asked about football without pushing, complimented his shoes without gushing, and let silences sit instead of rushing to fill them.
Slowly, it seemed to work. Tim started answering in full sentences, and once he even laughed at something she said, surprised out of him before he caught himself. But underneath the politeness, something felt held back — not hostility, she was sure of that, but caution, like he was watching for a sign he half expected and dreaded. She mentioned it to Mark once. He squeezed her hand. “He lost his mom. Give him time.” She did.