I wanted to tell him to stop, to leave his shoes in the hall, to take the last piece of chicken, to be a messy, comfortable, entitled teenager who believed in his bones that his home was his.

But you cannot argue a child out of a survival strategy with words.

You can only, slowly, over a long time, make the strategy unnecessary, until one day he forgets to make his bed and does not spend the whole morning braced for the consequence.

I decided I would wait as long as it took.

I had, after all, nothing but time and a great deal of room, and here at last was someone to give it to.

So I did not rush him, and I did not tell him to stop auditioning, and I did not make speeches about how this was his home now and he could relax.