Aaron visited his girlfriend every day he could, brought her favorite snacks, helped her with schoolwork, watched bad movies with her, and spent countless hours by her side until she fell asleep.
***
“You’re going again today?” I asked, although I already knew.
“She’s having a rough week,” my son said, zipping the bag. “I told her I’d be there by four.”
I nodded and reached for my coffee.
“You’re going again today?”
“Tell Diane I said hi. I texted her yesterday, and she barely wrote back,” I told my son.
Aaron paused, just for a second.
“She’s tired, Mom.”
“I know, baby.”
But I’d noticed.
***
My best friend’s replies had been shrinking for weeks. A thumbs-up where there used to be a paragraph. A “k” where there used to be a phone call. I told myself it was the stress, the chemotherapy schedules, and the lack of sleep.
After all, grieving mothers don’t owe anyone small talk.
“She barely wrote back.”
***
Aaron kissed the top of my head, which still felt new and lovely, and grabbed his keys.
“Drive carefully,” I said.
“Always.”
I watched him from the window as he climbed into his old Civic.
The car pulled away, and the house felt quieter than it should have. Something, I realized, had been building for a while now. I just didn’t know yet what it was.
I watched him from the window.
***
Then Lily’s treatments started taking a visible toll.
She began losing her hair. Even when she tried to be brave about it, everyone could see how much it affected her.
I was still processing the change and how much it affected Diane and her daughter when something else changed.
***
One evening, I was folding laundry in the living room when I heard Aaron’s footsteps on the stairs. Something about the rhythm felt different: slower and deliberate. I looked up, and the basket slipped from my hands!
Lily’s treatments started taking a visible toll.
My son’s head was completely shaved! Not trimmed or buzzed short, but smooth, pale, and unfamiliar under the lamplight.
“Aaron,” I breathed as he came downstairs. “What did you do?”
He ran a hand over his scalp, almost shy.
“I knew you’d freak out a little.”
“A little? Honey, your hair! Why?” I stepped closer, reaching up before I could stop myself, my palm finding the cool, strange skin where his curls used to be.
“What did you do?”
Aaron didn’t pull away. He just watched me with those steady brown eyes that had always seemed older than his years.
“Mom, Lily is losing hers in clumps now,” he said quietly. “She tried to laugh about it last week, but I caught her crying in the bathroom when she thought I’d gone to get coffee.”
My throat tightened. I lowered my hand.
“I just,” he went on, “I wanted her to know that beauty isn’t in her hair. And that she doesn’t have to go through any of this alone. If she’s gonna look like this, then I will too. That’s all.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment.
Aaron didn’t pull away.
I just looked at my teenage boy, who’d somehow figured out something most adults spend a lifetime trying to learn.
“You’re a good kid, Aaron,” I finally said, my voice catching. “You’re a really, really good kid.”
He shrugged, as if he wished I wouldn’t make a big deal of it.
“I’m gonna head to bed. Long day tomorrow.”
“Are you seeing her after school?”
“Yeah. Coach gave me the afternoon off from practice.”
I watched him climb back upstairs, and I just stood there in the middle of the living room, blinking at the laundry on the floor.
“Are you seeing her after school?”
I felt full to bursting with so much pride!
It was one of the sweetest things I’d ever seen him do.
I thought that would be the end of it. I really did.
