A minute later, Max hops in the car. He’s big enough for the front seat, but ever since Riley’s death, he’s chosen the back. When I asked him about this, he said he just felt safer back there. I had no reason to argue the point. It’s always safer in back.

“You see the snow?” he asks.

“Hard to miss it,” I say. “How was your day?” I lean my head back, and he leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Okay. Can we go sledding?”

“Not today, sweetie. The sun sets early this time of year. Only going to be a couple of hours of light left today.”

“That’s plenty of time.”

“But it just started snowing,” I say, pointing at the patchwork of white and green on the nearby field. “Nothing to sled on yet.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, surveying the landscape. “I’m dumb.”

“No, you’re not,” I say. “You need to love yourself. All the time.”

“What? I am dumb, you know.”

“No, Max, you’re not.”

“With some things I am.”

This incessant argument. The low self-esteem has been particularly pronounced in the last couple of months. The kid will be reading Faulkner by age thirteen, and he can’t give himself a break.

I don’t respond. Instead, I pull away from the car line and from Tasha Collins, easing into the snowy afternoon.

At home, things turn ugly. After a quick snack, Max falls into a mood, and now instead of himself being the target, it’s me. We’re in the living room and he refuses to do his homework, even though he has all of five math problems to complete. Normally, that would take ten minutes. Now, he acts as though I’m asking him to explain string theory to me. I reason with him. You know this stuff, Max. It’ll take no time at all. I threaten him. No screens or books until you’ve finished. I promise a reward. We can play a game before dinner if you finish it.

After an hour, I plead with him. Can you just do this? I really need you to do this. Ninety minutes later, I give up on him. I don’t know what to do with you. I’m trying my best, but you’re not letting me help you, and I can’t do this anymore. Not tonight.

Perhaps this was the stage he was waiting for me to reach, because the moment I give up on him, the assault launches. And Max doesn’t fire warning shots. He goes straight to nuclear.

“Sometimes I wish you were also dead.”

What. The. Fuck.

His verbal attacks have worsened since Riley’s death—understandable—but he has never said this to me before, and as patient as I am, and as much as I love him with all that’s left of my soul, his words stab as if I were being knifed by a back-alley assailant. And I respond in kind.

I hit him.

In his life, I’ve never laid a hand on my boy. My beautiful son.