Her son is eight years old. She and his dad have driven two hours to retrieve him from his first sleepover camp. He lasted one night. She sits in the back seat with him, holding his hand, certain she has scarred him for life.
“I ate some grass,” he says.
“You did?” she says. “When? Why?”
“It didn’t matter to them that I was homesick but if I was really sick, they would definitely call you.”
She squeezes his hand. Silently, she praises his creative problem solving, always on the lookout herself for ways to convince others her sadness is real.