It took my breath away when my son stormed into the bathroom, frustrated, angry, fed-up for his very own, very significant to him, reasons. And when he chose to SLAM the bathroom door, causing the heavy mirror mounted to the front to slip out of the hardware holding it in place and crash onto the floor — a million, BROKEN pieces were left reflecting the afternoon light.
I was quiet. I surveyed the damage and took a deep breath. Put the dog outside so he wouldn’t cut his feet, put the cat in the basement for the same reason.
His soul hurt. This was not what he expected either. Hello, Anger — I don’t remember inviting you into my house.
Go Mama. Get him. Go now. Scoop him into your lap. Yup, you’re crying too. Damn this was big. Hold him tight. Watch how he curls into a ball in your arms so quickly. See how eager he is to be loved by you. To be reassured by you. See how small he still is. See how fragile that spirit is.
I love you.
You are safe.
I am right here.
The worst part is over now.
I’ve got you.
I’m here.
I love you.
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