I crossed the kitchen and I wrapped both arms around my son and pulled him against me, hard, and buried my face in his dusty hair, and felt his small arms come up and wrap around my waist and hold on.

He held on the way he had not let himself hold on in a long time, not since he had appointed himself the man of the house and decided that men do not cling to their mothers.

For six months, longer really, he had been holding himself apart, holding himself up, holding it all together, and now, finally, in that kitchen, with the secret out and the danger past, he let himself simply be held, be small, be a child in his mother’s arms, and I felt the whole rigid architecture of his self-control give way against me.

I would have stood there holding him for a week if he needed it.