Because think about what my son had been carrying, and carrying alone.

A twelve-year-old had discovered that his father — the parent he lived with, ate breakfast across from, was supposed to be safe with — was a criminal, and not a small one.

And he had not been able to tell anyone.

Not a teacher, because who would believe a child accusing a pillar of the community.

Not the police, for the same reason, and because he couldn’t be sure who his father owned.

Not me, because telling me would put me in danger and because I was about to lose custody and be pushed out of his reach entirely.