The unease grew as the days passed. Ethan was polite, obedient, and even reserved. He played on his tablet less. He never argued when we asked him to do something. It was… unnatural. I should have been thrilled, but instead, I felt a creeping sense of dread.
I decided to ask him what had happened at Grandma’santique clock struck ten, I found rainbow candy wrappers hidden in the floorboards – a treat Ethan had quit three months prior. The crinkled foil had been folded into a clumsy crane bearing crayon-scrawled wings: “MomDadDon’tFlyAway.”
“Sweetheart,” I knelt beside his newly organized LEGO station, our distorted reflections warping in the tool cabinet’s metallic surface, “tell me what you heard at Grandma’s?”
Ethan’s color-sorted pencils trembled. A cerulean blue tip snapped as his pupils dilated, catapulted back to that bergamot-scented afternoon – Susan’s signature mask for cigarette smoke.
Security footage revealed last Saturday at 2:37 PM: Susan’s smartphone vibrating on the patio table. Ethan, building a space station, glimpsed the caller ID – “Divorce Attorney Jensen” – stolen while Grandma brewed coffee.
“…seriously considering separation,” Susan’s stage-whisper carried through lavender tea steam. “The child’s too unruly, Amanda and Mike fight constantly… Of course we’ll seek custody…”
Ethan’s spacecraft exploded, LEGO pieces scattering like stardust. As Grandma turned, he trembled behind damask curtains clutching sedatives from her coat pocket – props for this “accidental” revelation.
In the play therapist’s sandroom, Ethan encircled wedding figurines with dinosaurs. “T-Rex Grandma says,” he poked the predator’s plastic fangs, “if I stay a perfect robot, MomDad won’t live apart.”
Mike’s bloodshot eyes met mine, our clasped hands trembling. Last month’s school district argument, warped by Susan into marital collapse.
“Grandma tricked us,” I smoothed Ethan’s sketchbook of scribbled-out smiley faces. “Mom and Dad stick together – no matter what.”
“But Dad slept in the study…” His tear-glazed lashes lifted.
“Because Mom hogs blankets!” Mike played security footage: 3 AM, me starfishing across the bed as he chuckled on the floor. Ethan’s first real grin in weeks flashed baby-shark teeth.
We built a gloriously lopsided treehouse, hammering bent nails and misaligned planks. Ethan directed with flushed cheeks: “Dad’s side two centimeters higher! Mom let paint drip on ant hills!
When Susan’s cease-and-desist letter arrived, we cheered burnt cookies. Mike shredded it before Ethan, paper snowflakes swirling. “Tell Grandma,” he hoisted our son skyward, “we prefer imperfect meteor showers.”
Midnight ER bills revealed Ethan’s masterpiece on diagnosis paperwork: Grandma as dragon defeated by superheroes, wedding bands as force fields, himself afloat on rainbow unicorn firing love lasers.
Dawn illuminated Mike snoring at the foot of our bed. I kissed Ethan’s sleep-slackened mischief-returned mouth, finally deciphering my ex’s note: “Grateful for imperfections that teach us embrace – Your Blanket Thief Comrade.”
