Chapter 3: The Signs I Should Have Seen
The change began in September of his sophomore year. Danny had always been quiet, but this was different—a withdrawal so complete it was like watching him disappear while still sitting right in front of me.
“How was school today?” I’d ask during our usual after-school snack time.
“Fine,” he’d mumble, no longer eager to share stories about his classes or show me his latest sketches.
His appetite vanished first. The boy who used to demolish three sandwiches after school suddenly picked at his food, claiming he wasn’t hungry. Then came the sleepless nights—I’d hear him pacing in his room at 2 AM, or find him at the kitchen table staring into space when I got up for my morning coffee.
“Everything okay, son?” I asked one night, finding him hunched over his homework at midnight.
“Just trying to get caught up,” he said, but his textbook was closed, his notebook blank.
The physical signs were harder to miss. A black eye he claimed came from “running into a door.” Torn clothes he said were the result of “tripping on the stairs.” that kept mysteriously disappearing, requiring expensive replacements that strained our already tight budget.
“Basketball’s getting rough this year,” he explained when I noticed a bruise on his ribs. “Coach says it’ll toughen us up.”
But Danny wasn’t on the basketball team. Had never tried out. When I called to ask about the team’s practice schedule, the coach had no idea who my son was.
