Chapter 8 - Noah Asked If The Apology Was Being Recorded
Wednesday evening, Ryan arrived first.
Noah and I came five minutes later.
Neutral family room inside the community center.
Sofa.
Two chairs.
A box of board games nobody touched.
Ryan stood when Noah entered.
Then stopped himself from walking over.
“Hey, buddy.”
Noah stayed beside me.
“Hi.”
I sat near the door.
Ryan sat across from him.
Nobody knew how to begin.
Then Ryan said:
“I’m sorry.”
Noah looked around the room.
“Where's your phone?”
Ryan took it out.
Turned it off.
Placed it on a shelf across the room.
Noah stared.
“Is there another one?”
Ryan's face changed.
“No.”
“Camera?”
“No.”
“Are you recording sound?”
“No.”
Ryan swallowed.
“You can check.”
Noah actually did.
He looked behind a lamp.
Under the table.
Through the room.
A nine-year-old inspecting an apology for hidden equipment.
Ryan watched.
I watched Ryan.
He deserved the pain.
I still hated seeing it.
Noah sat again.
Ryan said:
“I lied to you on Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“I told you the recording was private.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
Noah looked at the carpet.
“Why?”
Ryan did not give him the adult explanation.
Good.
“I wanted people to think I was a good dad.”
Noah looked up.
That answer was simple enough to hurt.
“Are you?”
Ryan's eyes filled.
“I try to be.”
“That isn't yes.”
I almost intervened.
Didn't.
Ryan said:
“Sometimes yes. Saturday, no.”
Noah thought.
Then:
“Did Mom know?”
“No.”
Noah looked at me.
“Did you used to put me online?”
Here it was.
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Little.”
“That means yes.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I forced myself not to justify.
“I thought it was harmless and sometimes funny.”
“Did Dad make you?”
“No.”
Ryan looked at me.
Noah asked:
“Did you make Dad?”
“No.”
He leaned back.
For once, no parent could make the other carry the whole thing.
Noah looked at Ryan.
“Did I make money?”
Ryan's face tightened.
“The channel did.”
“Did I?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Ryan looked at me.
I did not rescue him.
He answered:
“Because I treated the money as mine.”
“Was it because of me?”
“Some of it.”
Noah stared.
“So that's my money.”
The logic was not legally precise.
Emotionally, difficult to challenge.
Ryan said:
“I need to think about that.”
Noah's face hardened.
“Adults say that when they don't want to give something back.”
I almost smiled.
Ryan almost did too.
Neither dared.
Then Noah asked:
“Can I see the videos?”
Ryan froze.
I did too.
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Ryan looked at me.
I genuinely did not know.
Noah noticed.
“You both saw them.”
Some.
Not all.
Ryan said:
“Some videos could upset you.”
“They're me.”
That sentence changed the room.
I had been thinking in terms of protection.
Ryan in terms of ownership.
Noah saw something simpler.
His image.
His voice.
His life.
Ryan said:
“You have a right to know what I posted.”
I looked at him.
Maybe.
But not an immediate right to absorb every cruel comment strangers had left.
I said:
“We should figure out a way to show you safely.”
Noah looked annoyed.
“What does safely mean?”
“Without making you read thousands of strangers talking about you.”
He considered.
That landed.
Ryan said:
“We can make a list first.”
I almost objected.
Then didn't.
Noah asked:
“Who makes the list?”
Ryan and I both opened our mouths.
Stopped.
Noah rolled his eyes.
“Can somebody else?”
We looked at each other.
There it was.
A child asking for an adult who was not invested in winning.
We agreed to ask his therapist.
Ryan had resisted therapy six months earlier.
Now he nodded first.
After fifty minutes, Noah agreed to go with Ryan for dinner.
Not overnight.
Ryan did not argue.
They started toward the exit.
Then Noah stopped.
“Dad.”
Ryan turned.
“If I cry at dinner, what happens?”
Ryan's face collapsed.
“No one sees it.”
Noah stared.
Ryan continued:
“No camera. No notes. No video later.”
Noah looked at me.
“What about Mom?”
I swallowed.
“No notes.”
That meant something for me too.
Noah nodded.
Then he left with his father.
I sat alone in the room for several minutes afterward.
May you like
It was the first custody exchange in months that neither of us had preserved.
I felt strangely exposed.
Related Stories
