Lately, when he’s tired his face twitches slightly to the right. Like he’s shooing away a pesky gnat. What does it mean? What kind of war is being waged inside of him? Is it junior high? The divorce?
He’s pitted himself against me again tonight—testing limits and unleashing stored-up rage. I stand my ground, winning yet another battle.
But victory never feels sweet, especially not tonight as I hear the muffled sobs coming from his room.