Around that same time, Leo's fragile relationship with Greg started changing in a way I couldn't protect him from or fix for him. For years, when Leo was little, I had been able to easily smooth over Greg's constant cancellations. I'd cheerfully say his dad had a sudden work emergency or that his car broke down. Then I'd quickly redirect Leo toward ordering pizza or watching a new movie, and his short attention span would help him move on.
But as Leo got older, the polite explanation stopped working. He was nine now. He had a calendar in his room, an excellent memory, and the sharp ability to notice behavioral patterns.
One Saturday morning, Greg was supposed to pick Leo up at 10:00 a.m. to take him to a massive new indoor rock climbing gym they had been talking about for weeks. Leo was vibrating with excitement. He had his special athletic shoes tied and sitting by the front door before breakfast was even served. He kept pacing back and forth, checking the front window every 5 minutes.
Even though Greg wasn't due for another hour, I hated watching it. I already had that familiar, sickeningly tight feeling in the pit of my stomach. At 9:00 a.m., exactly 1 hour before pickup, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Greg.
"Massive work emergency. Totally swamped. Can't make it today. Tell the little man I'm so sorry.
We'll definitely do it next weekend." I stared at the glowing text message and felt a level of blinding white-hot maternal anger that was almost frightening. I had seen endless variations of this exact text message so many times over the years. I wanted to call him, scream into the phone, and demand that he drive over here, and explain his pathetic excuses directly to his son's face. I wanted to tell him that children eventually stop waiting by windows, and once they stop, they never start again.
Instead, I put the phone down, took a deep breath to steady my racing heart, walked into the living room, and sat down on the couch beside Leo. "Hey, buddy," I said softly, clearing the lump in my throat. "Your dad? He can't make it today." Leo's bright, excited face fell instantly.
The light literally left his eyes. "Why?" he asked quietly. "He sent a message saying a big emergency happened at his work." Leo looked down at his hands. "He always has work when it's my day." I didn't know what to say to that.
Lying to protect Greg would insult Leo's intelligence and agreeing too strongly would drag my son into the dark pit of adult resentment. So, I just put my arm around his shoulders and said, "I know you're incredibly disappointed, Leo. You have every single right to be mad."
He kicked his foot against the coffee table and asked, his voice cracking, "Why does he keep making big plans with me if he knows he's not going to come?" That question physically hurt my heart. I told him the most honest truth I could. I said I couldn't answer for his father. I explained that sometimes adults make promises they genuinely think they can keep in the moment and then they fail at them because they are flawed and sometimes they just don't fully understand how much their failure hurts somebody else. It was the absolute kindest, most sanitized version I could come up with without pretending his father's behavior was acceptable.