But his voice sounded empty, like he was reading lines from a script.
Over the next week, Victor withdrew. He stopped chatting at dinner, stopped laughing at Tanner’s bad jokes. He went straight to his room after school. Whenever the college fund came up, his face drained of color.
One evening, I found him on his bed in the dark, knees drawn to his chest.
“Victor?” I sat beside him. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Nothing, Mom.”
“Honey, you’ve hardly spoken in days. Did something happen?”
His hands trembled. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I’m not allowed,” he whispered.
My heart sank. “Not allowed? What do you mean?”
He turned to me, fear plain in his eyes. “Mom, please don’t push. I can’t. I just… can’t.”
Tears came, and when I reached for him, he pulled back. “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
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