He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want questions. He just wanted the world to quiet down and leave him be. Some mornings, he’d sit on the edge of his bed for ten minutes, sock in hand, staring blankly ahead before finally moving.
Some nights, his dad found him curled up in the laundry room, tears running down his face without a sound. His grief had grown roots in quiet corners. His dad tried his best. He really did. He took on more shifts at the garage, and in the evenings, he picked up freelance data-entry jobs just to stay afloat.