Fear Is a Storyteller

On Sunday my son was supposed to come home for a visit. Not to move back in. Just to visit. We had planned to go to the bookstore, have some lunch, and spend a little time together. After everything we’d been through, something as ordinary as sitting together at home meant more than it once had.

Then he called.

He hadn’t slept. He was exhausted. He wasn’t coming. He apologized and told me he loved me.

And immediately, my mind started working. Why hadn’t he slept? Was something wrong? Was this another warning sign? Or was he simply tired?

I didn’t know. And that was the problem.

For years, not knowing had been almost unbearable. When addiction enters your family, uncertainty becomes something you try desperately to eliminate. You search for explanations, look for patterns, and prepare yourself for the worst. You tell yourself you’re being responsible. But sometimes you’re just frightened.

I had spent years turning small pieces of information into entire stories about what might happen next. Some of those fears became reality. Many didn’t. But I suffered through every imagined ending anyway.

That Sunday, I had a choice. I could question him, investigate, and try to determine whether there was something more behind his decision. Or I could accept what he told me.

He was tired. He had called. He had made his own decision. And I didn’t have to make another one for him.

I wanted that afternoon together. Of course I did. But wanting something didn’t mean I could make it happen.

Five days earlier, I’d finished writing Stay with the Moment. Now life was asking whether I could actually live it.

The visit didn’t happen. I still didn’t know everything I wanted to know. But I didn’t have to.

My son had canceled a visit home. That was what happened. Everything else was the story my fear wanted to tell.

And this time, I could leave that story unfinished.