Chapter 11 - SOFIA
Mason’s mother would have burned the folders.
Not literally.
Probably.
Sofia was capable of dramatic recycling.
She died when Mason was five.
Brain aneurysm.
Sudden.
Breakfast.
Headache.
Ambulance.
Then a hospital room where twelve hours became the dividing line of our lives.
Afterward, Mason slept in my bed for four months.
Patricia disapproved.
"He needs routine."
I answered:
"He needs his father."
She called that overprotection.
Maybe sometimes it was.
I canceled a school trip because Mason cried the night before.
I stopped letting him climb the tall playground structure after Sofia died because I pictured head injuries everywhere.
Dr. Morris later told me:
"Your fear did affect his opportunities."
True.
Patricia had identified something real.
Then built the wrong solution.
Overprotection does not make someone else’s abuse therapeutic.
Trent’s folders framed my grief as evidence Mason needed harder treatment.
I felt guilty enough to almost accept the premise.
Dr. Morris stopped me.
"Could Mason benefit from age-appropriate independence?"
"Yes."
"Does that include adults striking him?"
"No."
May you like
"Then stop connecting those sentences."
Simple.
