Chapter 10 - I Had Been Using My Childhood to Decide What Eli Should Tolerate
The hardest part came when the child-welfare investigator asked:
“Had Eli previously expressed fear about being alone with Richard?”
I wanted to say:
no.
Then I remembered.
Not one incident.
A pattern.
Clue one:
the upper-arm bruise.
I warned Dad.
Then sent Eli back.
Clue two:
the forgotten school items.
Eli said he did not want to go.
I called Grandpa:
annoying.
Clue three:
the locked workshop.
Richard admitted locking the door.
I said:
don’t.
Then trusted:
fine.
There was more.
Three months before the ambulance, Eli’s school counselor emailed:
Eli has expressed anxiety about Thursday afternoons and says his grandfather becomes angry when he “doesn’t act tough enough.” I wanted to check whether there are family stressors we should know about.
I replied:
Grandpa is old-school and Eli is sensitive. We’re working on communication.
Sensitive.
That word.
Richard’s word.
I had adopted it.
Why?
Because my childhood became the measuring stick.
I thought:
Dad did worse to me.
I turned out fine.
Which is one of the most dangerous conclusions adults can draw from:
surviving something.
If I survived it, then the next child can tolerate it.
No.
Maybe I survived despite:
it.
Maybe what felt normal to me felt:
frightening
to Eli because it was frightening.
There was another reason.
Work.
I had applied for a senior maintenance-manager position.
Better pay.
Day-shift eventually.
But during the training period I needed:
three late afternoons
covered every week.
Paid after-school care for Eli’s age existed, but he hated the programs.
A sitter cost:
money.
Megan lived two hours away.
Richard was:
free,
close,
family.
I wanted the promotion.
I also believed I had earned:
the chance.
All true.
So when warning signs appeared, I kept asking:
Is this bad enough to blow up childcare?
Wrong question.
The question should have been:
Does Eli feel safe there?
When Eli said:
not really,
I treated his discomfort like something to:
manage.
That was mine.
I did not shove him.
Did not lock the door.
Did not cause the fractures.
Richard owned:
those choices.
But I had repeatedly sent my son into a place he was asking me to reconsider because I trusted:
my interpretation
over:
his experience.
The first time Eli said this aloud in therapy, I wanted to defend myself.
“I didn’t know.”
He answered:
“You knew I hated going.”
Yes.
Not the same as knowing he would be injured.
Still:
yes.
May you like
I stopped arguing.
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