When my sister questioned why I was doing almost everything alone, I insisted Preston was struggling in his own way.
The truth was harder to admit.
Our son’s injury frightened him, and instead of moving closer to us, he slowly moved away.
My days became a routine of medications, exercises, appointments, insurance calls, bathing, dressing, helping Julian into the car, and trying not to let him see me cry when something that used to take five minutes suddenly took forty.
Preston came home later each night.
When he was there, he seemed irritated by the wheelchair in the hallway, the therapy equipment in the living room, and the schedules stuck to our refrigerator.
One evening, Julian quietly asked me why his father never came to therapy.
I told him Preston worked a lot.
Julian nodded, but children know when an answer is covering something else.
A few months after the accident, Julian and I drove nearly three hours to meet a specialist who had worked with children with similar injuries.
