Max’s Mom, May 31, 2024

The letter sat on a pile of mail that had accumulated over the last week on the kitchen breakfast bar, hidden under Max’s unopened high school graduation cards. Lisa sorted through the junk mail: postcards selling lawn fertilizer services, window replacements, and the church newsletter. She looked for a place to stow away the pile before family showed up for the post-graduation party.

The letter had no return address, just a typed, smudged courier font that read:

To Max’s Mom

The paper reminded her of high school typing class, all those term papers she typed on her parents’ typewriter—a translucent, onion-skin sheet with a scent of old.

“Who uses a typewriter anymore?” she mumbled to herself, then called out to her kids, “Max, Matthew, Michael… we’ve got to go!” She emphasized go. “We’ve got to save seats for Nana and Grandpa!”

Maybe this was a college reference from one of Max’s teachers that came too late, but Max didn’t know anyone in the Midwest. Max had decided on Thorndike College and had committed to playing lacrosse. On her stainless-steel refrigerator was a photo magnet of Max signing his agreement to the college, donning a Thorndike sweatshirt. That photo op had made it to the front page of the town’s weekly newspaper. Lisa unfolded the fragile paper and read:

Your son is a patronizing, condescending, two-faced, long-haired, snarly brat. He is a Gen Z Eddie Haskell. He is sneaky and insincere. Do you think Max is a kind person? Is he able to be a good friend? As you watch Max accept his diploma, I hope you wonder what kind of person he has been over the last 12 years—the children he has dismissed, ridiculed, and hurt. I hope you worry whether he is capable of being a friend to anyone, and what would motivate him to be so cruel to others.

Lisa’s mouth instantly went dry. She tried to swallow but tasted bitterness. What kind of awful person would send this? She crumpled the paper, scooped up the mail pile, and shoved it into the pantry to deal with tomorrow.

Max was a good kid. He was going to major in history, become a teacher, and he did 80 hours of community service as part of his Confirmation from St. Luke’s. He visited nursing home residents and played board games and read books to them. Lisa’s family room was always jammed with Max, Michael, and Matthew’s friends watching TV, talking, and laughing.

“What’s the matter?” Lisa’s husband Tim entered the kitchen with the blue cooler with ice, and started to add soda, Natural Lite, and a few Twisted Teas from the fridge. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“Some creep sent this letter,” Lisa shook her head to shush away the tears that started to well in her eyes.

“Max, Michael, Matthew… get down here now.” Her shout was more of a croak, clogged with a squelched cry.

Tim dropped the cooler to the floor, stepped toward Lisa, and wrapped his arms around her. “This is Max’s big day. What’s gotten into you? You should be happy, our firstborn is graduating high school!”

“Max can be sarcastic. You know. He’s always ribbing and teasing his brothers. Do you think he’s that way in school? Do you think that’s a problem? Like he’s a mean person?”

Tim shrugged, returning to the cooler, ice, and drinks. “He’s in the honor society, captain of the lacrosse team, he’s got a ton of friends and a girlfriend. I think he’s fine.”

Max, Michael, and Matthew rumbled down the stairs into the kitchen. Max was wearing the pressed white button-down shirt and royal blue tie Lisa laid out for him in his room. His long hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, with a few strands escaping across his left eye. Max shoved Michael out of the way and grabbed a Sprite from the cooler.

“Don’t shove your brother,” Lisa studied Max, looking at him with a new lens. “Why did you shove Michael?”

“He was in my way,” Max cracked open the soda and took a gulp.

“How about excuse me,” Lisa suggested.

Max rolled his eyes, then curtsied to his younger brother. “Excuuuuuse me,” he sang in a fey voice, then belched. “Mom, I gotta go. They want us at the auditorium by 5 p.m.”

“Okay, let me get a couple of photos before you go.”

“No can do, gotta go, see you at the school.”

Lisa stood by the front door and watched Max jog to his Subaru, his cap and gown swung over his shoulder. She waited to see if he would look up at her, give her a smile and wave, maybe even call out a “love you” before he peeled away. But he just looked back as he pulled out, rap music thumping and the sound of the tires screeching.

Sam’s House, February 2017

“Is this your little toy room? Is this where your mommy keeps your toys?”

I’m upstairs, eavesdropping on my son’s playdate with Max, a teammate from Sam’s travel basketball team. Sam’s voice is low, and I make out, “Cut it out Max”. Less than 30 minutes have passed since Max was dropped off, and I’m already ready to end this.

“What’s this? Are these your drums? Why don’t you play me a little tune?”

I hear Max move toward the drum set, followed by thrashing—the snare, bass, and cymbals slammed too hard.

“You try, Sam. Can you play me a little song?”

Sam’s voice is quiet; I can’t make out his response. Grabbing a plate of cookies and some juice boxes, I jog downstairs.

“What are you boys doing?”

Sam stares at his feet while Max wields a drumstick in the air. This is Sam’s home, his basement with his beanbag chair and Xbox—his sanctuary from homework and where his marathon Fortnite sessions take place—and yet he looks like a stranger in the most uncomfortable place imaginable.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Belkin. Sam was just showing me all his cool toys.”

“Oh, is he? That’s Mr. Belkin’s drum set. He’s had it for many years, so please be careful with it.”

“I was just asking Sam to play something for me, but he’s acting shy.”

Why is a 10-year-old talking to me like this? “That’s an interesting observation, Max. I wouldn’t describe Sam as shy.”

“I’m not shy, I’m not in the mood to play the drums.”

I eye Max, perched on the drum set stool. He scowls, and we lock eyes in a silent standoff.

“Why don’t you boys take a break from drumming and have a snack?”

I place the cookies and juice boxes on the table.

“Juice boxes? What are we, six?” Max laughs, grabbing one and slurping noisily. He strolls around the basement like a tourist in an art museum, picking up random objects and quizzing Sam about each one.

“What’s this, Sam? Do you even know what this is?”

Max holds up a square glass coaster featuring a photo— a set of silly photos of me I gave my husband for Christmas in 2004: one of me with braided pigtails, another one of me laughing with my hair in my face.

“Put the coaster down, Max.” Turning to my son, I ask, “What’s going on, Sam? Are you okay?”

Sam nods and takes a bite of a cookie.

“Oh, me and Sam are having a great time, Mrs. Belkin.”

“Really, Max? You and Sam are having fun?”

I walk away but sit at the top of the stairs to keep listening.

“Do you love your mommy, Sam? Are you a…momma’s boy?”

That’s it. I grab my phone and dial Lisa, but it goes to voicemail. “Hey, Lisa, this is Christina. Sam isn’t feeling well. Can you come pick up Max? I don’t want him catching anything.” I hang up and feverishly text: Sam sick. Can you pick up Max? I can drop him off if easier.

Jogging downstairs, I find Max twirling a fireplace stoker like a maniacal ninja.

“Max, I’m driving you home. Now,” I bark.

“Stop mom. It’s fine.” Why is Sam covering for this jerk? Does he bother him at school too?

“You don’t treat your home this way and neither should Max. Max, I’m taking you home. Let’s go.”

“My folks aren’t home. I can’t go home.”

“I’m not your babysitter. I’ve already called and texted your mom that I’m dropping you off.”

Max sits in the back seat of my SUV, quiet for once, until I miss a right turn.

“You’re the worst driver. Who gave you a license?”

I scream as loud as I can, rattling the car, “What’s that, Max? Did you say something about my driving?”

Max’s eyes widen, then he rolls them. “Fucking crazy woman.”

The ride is again silent until I pull into his driveway. “Get out.”

“My parents aren’t home. They’ll be mad at you for leaving me alone.”

“You tell your mom to give me a call and I will be happy to tell her all about your behavior today. Do we understand each other, Max?”

Max nods and slides out of the car.

Brandon’s Dad, May 31, 2024

“Yo, Coach! Great season! My son is looking forward to your summer camp in a few weeks! Here, have a cigar!”

Coach Mark nodded and grinned, “Thanks a lot! Appreciate the support.” He accepted the cigar and the light from the stranger, taking a couple of quick drags to stoke up an ember. “You got another one for my son Brandon?”

“Where did Brandon land?” the stranger asked handing Coach Mark a second cigar.

“James Madison down in Virginia. Division 1.”

He loved being a coach but hated the local fame and recognition he got around town. Whether he was checking out at the grocery store, pumping gas, or even idling at a red light, there was always someone giving a wave and a shout: “Nice game, Coach!”

This was his son Brandon’s graduation night, and he didn’t want to take away from his glory. Coach Mark had been a physical education teacher for 30 years, was the Varsity coach of the high school team for the last 20 years and ran one of the largest basketball camps in the state, churning out hundreds of kids from his six-week clinic. Coach Mark knew his son Brandon was a phenom. Even at the age of 3, that boy spent hours dribbling the ball and shooting basket after basket on his Fischer-Price hoop. The boy just loved the game, even more than Coach Mark did.

The crowd of senior parents and family members filled the rows and rows of white folding chairs. Different shapes, sizes, and ages milled about, saving seats, carrying rose bouquets, snapping photos, and vying for the best spot to watch the graduates parade. The coach just stood in the background. He had sat through plenty of graduations for other people’s kids. He knew the run of the show and how long the procession would take. All he wanted was a quick hug and a high five from his son as he marched to “Pomp and Circumstance.”

Despite the crowd continuing to fill the seats, Coach Mark figured it was another twenty minutes before the program started. He’d kill some time and read the weird letter he got in the mail that morning, tucked in his sports jacket’s back pocket. He unfolded the yellowed, frail paper and read.

Your son physically assaulted my son on two occasions.

The first was during basketball practice, when he intentionally struck my son’s head with a basketball. The second was during a game, when your son shoved back my son’s head for not subbing out of the game. The assistant coach refused to bring this issue to your attention because you yourself are some basketball god. He didn’t want to burden you with my petty issue.

Your son’s lack of sportsmanship was never disciplined. There was no consequence for his behavior. He continued to play first string, continued to be the star player, and continued to be revered by peers and parents.

Your son will never play in the NBA. He will follow in your footsteps and become a gym teacher and, maybe, lucky enough to have a few winning seasons as a basketball coach. His heyday has come and gone.

Coach Mark looked up from the letter and scanned the crowd, wondering if the author was among the faces and bodies bobbing up and down. Strangers’ eyes glanced and darted past him, heads nodded in recognition, who could have sent this? The high school band was tuning up, trumpets and woodwinds squeaking and trilling. He glanced back down at the letter. Another “Karen” bitching over her kid not getting enough playtime or attention or whatever. When did this even happen? Brandon was a hotshot as a little kid, but he had matured quite a bit, growing into a great mentor to his teammates. Why was this person still hung up ? He reread the letter one last time, crushed it into a tight, crinkled ball and shot it into the closest trash cane, 8 feet away.

The slow sway of “Pomp and Circumstance” began. Coach Mark knew the song was written by British composer Edward Elger and used at British patriotic events. It was first performed at a Yale University graduation in 1901, one of many kernels of knowledge he had collected as an educator. He even knew the lyrics:

Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,
How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?
Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;
God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet,
God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

His son’s glory days were not behind him—at least, he hoped they weren’t. Brandon had the potential to be mightier, with no boundaries on his future.

Christina’s Son, February 28, 2016

The group text was set up for four moms to organize drop-off and pick-up times for the travel basketball team practices. I agreed to help with logistics, but the text that came through wasn’t about the Tuesday night practice.

“Did you see Brandon hit Sam?” the first green bubble read, followed by some ellipses stalling until the next sentence was typed and sent: “Yeah, I did.”

There was no response from the other moms on the text, and the exchange stopped. Maybe they realized I was on the text.

I was the odd mom out in the group text and was the, “LVM,” Least Valuable Mom having missed my first turn to pick up the boys from practice due to a late meeting. The moms also seemed to know each other well. I wasn’t sure if it was the private pool and tennis club they all belonged to or all those Mommy & Me PreK gatherings I missed because I worked. Either way, none of them could remember my name except for one mom who asked me repeatedly, “Do you get a blow out every week? How do you get your hair so smooth?”

That night at dinner with Sam and my husband David, Sam was sculpting a mini volcano with his mashed potatoes, with little food entering his mouth.

“Did some kid hit you today at the game?”

Sam continued to poke at his potatoes and seethed, “It’s not a big deal, Mom.”

My husband didn’t seem to have a problem eating his mashed potatoes when I asked, “Did you see what happened today?”

“I didn’t see anything. I left for a bit to go to the bathroom.”

Sam pushed his plate away and huffed. “You’re just going to get mad, Mom. I don’t want you to do anything about it.”

I was still miffed that my husband didn’t see the assault, “Christ, David, the whole point of you going to the games is to watch. How did you miss a kid hitting Sam?”

“I went to the bathroom! Those bleachers are uncomfortable. I needed to stretch and walk around.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “What happened, Sam?”

Sam slouches in his chair, avoiding eye contact. “Brandon was about to take a foul shot, and I wasn’t paying attention. I was leaning on my knees, looking down, when I should have been subbing out. He shoved my forehead back and yelled at me to get off the court.” He mimics the gesture, his face is flush, and I ache feeling what I can only imagine is shame or embarrassment or the frustration Sam felt all day.

“Did the coach say anything?” I want more details.

Sam shrugs. “No. Can I quit? I hate my team. They don’t like me, and I keep messing up because I don’t know all the rules.”

I want to yell, and I can feel my adrenaline accelerating, but I keep my voice even. “The coaches are supposed to teach you the rules. That’s their job.”

“They’re better than him, Christina,” David interjects, leaning back casually. “Honestly, Sam probably shouldn’t have made the team.”

I snap my head toward my husband. “But he did make the team, and his teammates have no right to hit him!”

Sam stares at the table. “Can I quit?”

“No!” I say firmly. “You were selected. You took a spot that could have gone to another kid. You owe it to yourself to see this through.”

David put his hand over mine, his tone lighter. “I’ll talk to the coach. Maybe he can get the kid to apologize.”

“An apology? That’s it?” I pull my hand back and cross my arms. “He should sit out the first half of the next game. There need to be real consequences.”

Sam scrapes his chair back and takes his plate to the sink. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. He’s the best player on the team.”

“Christina, it’s just growing pains,” David says with a shrug. “This stuff happens with boys. You get a few lumps. Sam should’ve been paying attention—the kid was telling him to move.”

“How would you know?” I can no longer maintain any composure and glare at my husband, “You were in the bathroom!”

Grayson’s Mom, May 31, 2024

Jenny had been doing CrossFit for six months, but this morning’s workout, “The Chief,” was quick: five three-minute rounds of 3 power cleans, 6 push-ups, and 9 air squats with a one-minute rest in between. She loved going to the gym, especially in the spring when the garage doors of the converted warehouse-turned-gym opened and the fresh breeze skimmed over her glistening skin, making the 50 burpees or the too-many wall balls bearable.

But today, she ended her workout with an easy jog, passing other businesses in the industrial park, enjoying the rising sun and the smell of freshly cut grass. She marinated in the anticipation of her son’s high school graduation that evening. The excitement was better than any Christmas morning. She couldn’t help but smile. There was so much to celebrate and be thankful for—nothing or no one could taint the joyful buzz zipping through every corner of her body.

Her endorphins were cranking, and the jog helped her sort through her to-do list: pick up the graduation cake and boutonniere from the Stop & Shop, stop by Party City for blue and white Mylar balloons, and swing by Christina and David’s house to collect all the décor from their staging. The house had sold in three days, and she was delighted that her rearranging of furniture and minimizing their formal décor had helped the sale.

Grayson was heading to Duke University in the fall. Duke! A mother’s dream for a son to go to a school of that caliber. Grayson was always so serious, constantly reading under the covers with a flashlight. He had read the Percy Jackson and Harry Potter series multiple times before his tenth birthday. Admittedly, Grayson was a bit calculating. He was particular about who his friends were, what classes he took, and what sports he played.

Jenny hopped into her BMW 3 Series and zipped toward Christina’s house. She loved the rolling hills and how the tall timbers framed the narrow roads masking the cliffs that dropped down to a ravine popular among locals for hiking. Turning into Christina and David’s driveway, she noticed a large dumpster filled with old board games, busted lawn chairs, and other items not worth packing for their new home.

She remembered this house when she was in high school. It was the big party house and at the time, one of the first real mansions built in town. It sat on a ridge looking over the few remaining orchards, a special little setting tucked away.

She jogged up to the front door and saw Christina through the glass, standing by her granite breakfast bar. The house looked empty, boxes beginning to take the place of furniture. Christina was folding a piece of paper, placing it in an envelope, and sealing it with a lick. Jenny gave a wave.

Christina opened the door and was all business, “I collected all your items and put them in those boxes by the credenza. Figured that would save you some time on a busy day.”

Christina turned and headed back to the breakfast bar.

“Thanks.” Jenny studied Christina, dressed as if she was already heading to the graduation that wasn’t for another eight hours. Her hair was freshly blown out, the ends curling perfectly. She wore heels, stockings, a black and white polka dot wrap dress, and a chunky necklace. Jenny suddenly wished she wasn’t still wearing her tank top, shorts, and a scrunchy in her hair.

“Congrats on the house sale,” Jenny said, waiting for Christina to thank her for the staging, but no thanks came. The house could have been featured in Better Homes, accordion doors to the blue gannet pool with a garden of day lilies and rhododendrons all blooming. Christina lifted the letter she had just sealed and tapped it on the counter.

“I was going to leave this note in your mailbox, but I might as well give it to you in person.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet …” Jenny started to say, but Christina interrupted her.

“When our boys were in seventh grade, I drove them home from a trampoline park. It was a 40-minute drive because we hit some traffic,” Christina’s voice was hoarse, like she had been crying. She paused, put her hand to her mouth to cough and continued, “Your son spent the entire ride telling Sam why no one at school liked him. Grayson listed off a lot of reasons for people to hate Sam—how he wore his hair, the silly films he liked to make and post on YouTube, the Jake Paul sweatshirts he wore to school.” Christina changed her voice to mimic a twelve-year-old Grayson. “‘Sam, nobody thinks you’re cool. I am not your friend anymore and won’t ever talk to you again.’”

Jenny could feel her head pivoting side to side. Where was this diatribe coming from? She tried to interject, “Christina, that’s ancient history. The boys were just kids. Sam seems to be doing well …”

“I give the kid credit. He was direct, and I guess that was better than ghosting Sam. Funny, the boys had countless playdates and sleepovers. Each time Grayson showed up at my house, he was always hungry. I’d make him dinner or take the boys to McDonald’s. I treated them to movies, roller skating, Harlem Globetrotters tickets…”

Jenny clenched her teeth. Her euphoric run seemed to be long ago. Was this woman mental? Still hung up on the middle school angst of her son? She regretted not asking the realtor to collect her decorations at the closing.

“What do you want—some apology? Do you want me to write you a check?” Jenny’s voice was louder than she had intended.

“I don’t expect an apology because you can’t see your son as cruel. I want you to feel how I felt that day, sitting in my car, listening to your son tell my son he had no friends, including him. How do you think that made him feel or me feel? How about this, I don’t like you, Jenny. I don’t like what you did to my house, and I don’t like your son. Take your stuff and get out of my house.”

Jenny walked to her box of pillows and vases and knickknacks. She was ready to sling some piercing jab back at Christina to retaliate, but how do you retaliate on a retaliation that was brewing and festering for five years? Jenny took a deep breath. Christina wasn’t crazy or mean. She saw her at all the open houses, the practices, the school recitals taking photos, waving at her son, a big smile on her face and dressed as if she had rushed out of some important meeting to be there for her child. She was a mom, trying her best not to mess up her kid. The home’s credenza was decorated with Sam’s high school accomplishments, his lifeguard certification, a photo of him singing in the school choir, a folded t-shirt quilt of every t-shirt collected from kindergarten to camp counselor. Jenny turned back toward Christina.

“I always thought Sam was a sweet kid. Still is. Every time he checks me out at the Stop & Shop he gives me a big hi ‘Mrs. Hillman, how are you today?’ One time he mentioned a race Grayson won that he heard about at school and congratulated me. What kid does that?” Jenny could see Christina roughly wiping her face. “I forced Grayson to be friends with Sam. Grayson was a serious kid. He never smiled or talked. I had hoped some of Sam’s charisma would rub off on Grayson. As it turns out, Grayson didn’t want to hang out with Sam. I shouldn’t have pushed Sam on Grayson and certainly never meant to hurt Sam.”

Jenny hesitated, studying Christina whose eyes were now red and puffy. She had hoped her explanation would soften what had happened between the boys’ years earlier.

Christina nodded, “Well, I appreciate you sharing that. That is decent of you.”

Jenny then walked over to Christina and grabbed her two hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. Christina was stiff, statuesque and cool.

“Congratulations on Sam’s graduation! This is a happy day!”

Christina nodded, “I’ll help you with your boxes,” and walked over to a box and heaved it up.

Sam’s Mom, June 1, 2024

Christina swiped the typewriter from her parents’ house in 1987 to bring to college. A 1972 Olympia SM9 had typed every paper until she replaced it with her Classic Mac senior year. Since then, the typewriter was used for typing labels or envelopes. It didn’t make sense to move it all the way to Akron, Ohio, just to collect dust in a new basement.

Like an uncoordinated discus thrower, Christina hurled the typewriter into the dumpster, watching it land on top of an artificial Christmas tree that no longer lit up. Beneath the tree was an Imaginext Batman Cave she had played with more than Sam ever did.

“That was cool,” she muttered to herself.

She glanced at the boxes of LEGOs missing pieces, including the Boeing 787 she had painstakingly assembled over the course of a week. When she finished piecing together the plane, Sam swooped it around the living room in a turbulent flight before crashing it into the couch. Pieces flew everywhere, and Christina snapped. “Do you know how long that took? Pick those pieces up!” That was the last LEGO set she ever bought.

The dumpster was a graveyard of their family’s last 12 years—an accumulation of memories, things, worries, hopes—everything they deemed unnecessary for the next chapter of their lives. The last few weeks were spent packing and purging, all while celebrating Sam’s big milestone. The silly letters she typed up and sent were a final task to push off her plate, offering a sense of relief and maybe a little vindication.

As Christina stood among the wreckage, she grabbed Sam’s Little League baseball bat. Five years of Little League bench-warming had given her plenty of time to watch other kids hit home runs or make miracle catches. She raised the bat and slammed it down hard on the typewriter, over and over, until it cracked open, the black ribbon flickering in the breeze.

“What are you doing?” Sam laughed behind her.

Christina jumped and spun around, surprised to see Sam home early from the safe grad event he had attended after the ceremony.

His wrinkled Ohio State T-shirt and green eyes glistened with amusement. “Are you crying?” he asked.

“No, just throwing out more junk,” she said, wiping her face. Christina couldn’t tell if she was sweating or crying.

Sam waded through the dumpster floor, his six-foot frame towering over Christina, and pulled her into a barrel hug, unbothered her sweaty T-shirt.

“How was your night?”

Sam laughed. “Everyone was wasted. Guys who’ve ignored me for years talked to me. It’s amazing what a little liquid courage can do to people. We were like best friends again.” He listed at least five names, including Max, Brandon, and Grayson.

“Well, you were a good friend to those boys,” Christina smiled.

Sam surveyed the dumpster scene. “Things are getting real.”

“Point of no return,” Christina said, her voice trailing off. Will Sam miss his childhood home next December when he doesn’t return for winter break? Does Sam have the same regrets and feelings she feels about their time in the picturesque New England town with its good schools, town green and acres of soccer fields? It was an ideal place to raise a child, but the town and its people were a puzzle and her family the odd piece that never quite fit.

“Did you have a good childhood, Sam?” she asked, her eyes catching Stranger Things birthday decorations buried beneath the debris.

“Yeah, Mom.” Sam put his arm around her shoulders, assessing the pile of debris. “I’m a lucky guy to have parents like you and Dad and this life.”

Christina felt a sting of guilt about the silly letters she had sent. Maybe Jenny, Lisa, and Mark would be lounging at the private pool club this summer, laughing at her mailbox assault. Somewhere in the dumpster was a box of parenting books she had never read. Maybe the answers were in those pages. She was certain none of the books would have suggested writing unhinged letters to parents. But as Sam’s arm stayed wrapped around her and his words of gratitude still floated above the dumpster, she realized she didn’t need any book, or town, or parent to validate her love for her son.