A New Season

My son Thomas’s lanky 17-year-old body filled the length of our couch, his broken left leg propped on pillows.

His entire leg was wrapped in a soft cast, the bones near the ankle fractured during August football practice. Exactly what I’d warned him about.

Glued to his hands was a video-game controller, the one he’d grabbed as soon as we came home from the doctor’s office yesterday. How long had he played that thing? Well, at least he’d be hungry.

“How’s the leg feeling this morning?” I asked. “I brought you a protein shake for breakfast—with a curly straw. Remember how you used to love those?”

“Uh-huh,” my son grunted, his fingers madly directing baseball players across the TV screen. “How ’bout a waffle too?” I said. “They have calcium in them.”

Thomas didn’t take his eyes off his TV, as if I weren’t in the room. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m not hungry. And I don’t use curly straws anymore,” he said.

“I just thought it’d cheer you up,” I said. “It can’t be fun having a broken leg. But you have to keep your appetite up if you want it to heal. I’m your mom. That’s what moms do—take care of their kids.”

Thomas shook his head, still not looking at me. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

I walked up the stairs and looked back at Thomas. Even with a broken leg he didn’t want my help. Doesn’t he even want me to be his mom anymore? I wondered. A question that increasingly tormented me.

Okay, so Thomas was growing up, but what had happened to my baby, the sweet boy I’d prayed so hard for?

I thought back to when he was little. We used to do everything together. He would hold my hand on nature walks, the paths slippery with moss. I made him shakes. I could picture him slurping one through a curly straw. Sitting at the table with his shake he shared secrets with me, like which Matchbox car was his favorite. He was crazy about his collection.

It all seemed to change the day he turned 15. It was like I’d contracted the plague. I was the last person he wanted to be around. He certainly stopped asking my advice. And look what happened! I’d told him (and his dad, Rick) football was dangerous. How could I get him to understand he still needed me?

All day he never called me for anything. When I brought him supper he mumbled, “Thanks,” his eyes never leaving the TV. I stood waiting, thinking he might say more. But nothing came and I trudged upstairs to eat dinner with Rick. “What is wrong with that boy?” I cried.

“He’s a teenager,” Rick said. “Both of the girls went through it.”