Everything I Like Causes Cancer

I was in small appliances; you were in the young men's department. I couldn’t hear her words but I could hear the tone she was using with you. She just kept repeating your name. It was incredibly annoying and we both wanted her to shut the hell up. Listing all the good reasons not to have children under my breath, I continued perusing coffeemakers.

Louder now, “Michael, we are leaving. You are just going to have to do without it."

I gathered that it was over a belt and that the belt was very important to you.

“Michael.”

“Michael."

“Michael."

I watched her beckon an elderly store clerk. While wondering what in the world she expected that poor woman to do, I heard her ask the woman to call security on you. My stomach sank. I chanted, “Don’t do this. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to him."

“I don’t want to go. Don’t do this,” you sobbed.

It broke my heart, Michael. Your boy’s voice, laced with strains of looming manhood, shoved me back in time. I recognized that voice, with its helpless frustration and anger, because it was mine. My throat closed, my hands shook, my eyes watered; I reeled.

I was wrong to think that your interaction had anything to do with a belt. It wasn't about holding up your pants or looking snappy. It was about a need to be heard and respected. A need that you're too young to recognize and one that you certainly don’t know how to request.

Not knowing any other way to make it stop, you fight. “I hate you! I don’t want to live with you. When I get home I am going to kick your ass. I’m going to kill you.” You choked on the words as they came out. You fight hard and you fight dirty because you are desperate.

You are also done for. Your meddling little sister takes this opportunity to show how adorably reasonable she is by announcing that she’s "going to go wait by the make-up counter", the pint-sized bitch. The store employees, attending your melt-down while waiting for security, have heard you; they’re on mom’s side now. You are clearly a demented beast.

The way you moaned when she announced, "Now I have to call 911.” (as if you had forced her), made me die a little inside. I wanted to run over there and hold your hand. I wanted to mediate. I wanted to tell you it was going to be okay. I wanted to make it stop because it was clear you didn’t know how.

I left a piece of myself with you today, Michael. I hope you’re okay.