No One Knows The Truth: Our Son Is Also A Survivor

I watch him as he lumbers out the doors of his high school.  Head phones in, baseball cap tucked down low over his ears, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His walk is slow, deliberate. His shoulders rounded under the weight of his back pack.

When he climbs in I ask, “How was your day?”

I already know the answer. It’s hard for us to have good days.

“It was alright,” he lies. “How was yours? Are you ok?”

“I’m ok,” I answer. He quietly takes my hand and holds it as we drive toward home. My tired, blan...