PART 2 I had to sit down in the hallway. Three broken bones I never knew about. In my son’s body. In my house. “When?” I whispered.
Over the next week, Dylan finally talked. To a counselor at the hospital first. Then to me.
The broken rib was from a shove into the kitchen counter. The other arm was from being yanked off the couch. Each time, Roy told him the same thing.
“If you tell your mom, they’ll take you away from her. And it’ll be your fault.”
So he didn’t tell. He wore long sleeves. He held his arm against his chest. He tried to protect me from the truth.
My nine-year-old had been protecting me.
Roy was charged with aggravated child abuse. Three counts. His brother was charged with failure to report, because he’d known about the arm and said nothing.
Roy pleaded guilty in the spring. Fifteen years.
I filed for divorce from the hospital cafeteria. A judge granted it in March.
I moved Dylan and me into a small apartment near my sister’s house. New school. New start. A counselor every Thursday.
The cast came off in six weeks. His arm healed straight this time, because a doctor finally set it.
