Tyler said, “Because everything sucks.”
Mason thought about that.
Then he said, “Everything cannot suck. That is too many things.”
Another laugh.
And somehow, over the next fifteen minutes, Tyler started talking.
Not because Mason knew the right questions.
Because Mason didn’t pretend.
He didn’t tell Tyler things would magically improve.
He didn’t say other people had it worse.
He didn’t say, “Cheer up.”
He simply listened.
Whenever Tyler made a vague statement, Mason asked him to be specific.
“What is the worst part?”
“Who said that?”
“What happened Tuesday?”
“Do you want it to stop or do you want your life to stop?”
At that last sentence, Diane’s eyes filled with tears.
My skin went cold.
“What did Tyler say?”
“He said he wanted the pain to stop.”
Diane looked directly at me.
“Your eight-year-old son was the first person my sixteen-year-old admitted that to.”
