I had been so proud of my discretion, so careful, so sure that I was giving my son the gift of an untroubled childhood in the middle of our troubles.

I had done my crying in the dark.

I had hidden the letters.

I had answered his occasional questions with reassurances I did not believe.

I had built, brick by careful brick, a wall of protection around him, and I had believed it was solid.

And it had been made of glass the entire time.

He had seen through every bit of it.

He had heard me crying in the kitchen when I thought he was asleep.