The past winter had torn up the road, and his still baby-fatted cheeks bounced along with the car as we headed back toward our house. He looked at me, eyebrows up and eyes wide open, on alert for whatever would come next. I looked at porn.” “I guess the first thing I want to tell you is that you didn’t do anything wrong."Ī silence hung in the air between us as I tried to figure out where to go from there. “It’s videos and pictures of people having sex,” I told him. His defense hadn’t been self-preservation so much as it was genuine confusion. And then he followed up with possibly the sweetest thing he ever asked me, given the context. He was formulating a plan, something to get out of this situation, and then he stopped. His eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for an escape hatch inside his own head. For a fact, and lying to me isn’t going to make this any better.”
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“Ossie,” I intoned, making clear the fact that he was speaking out of turn. Oscar gets easily defensive, always quick to deny wrongdoing-even when he’s told he didn’t do any wrong-and so I expected his reflexive protest of, “No I wasn’t!” I quickly reassured him he wasn’t in trouble, he didn’t do anything wrong, but there was this thing that I knew and it had to be out in the open. He shrank in the passenger seat, bracing for the worst. “So, I have to talk to you,” I told him, once we were inside the car and away from other ears. You had to really look at his face-with its lingering bits of chub and soft, trusting eyes-to remember how young he actually was. I wondered what his expression was then.Īt 9 years old, Oscar could have easily passed for 12 or 13: He stood 5’2” and weighed 125 pounds.
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The week before, he ran face-first into a wall of his own curiosity, saw things he shouldn’t have, things that he certainly would’ve kept to himself if I chose to let it go. Watching my boy bound out the doors of his school, all smiles and sprints-I’m free!-I wished he’d slow down. I’d been steeling myself for it all day I knew neither of us was ready. This was the conversation I was dreading-the one probably every father dreads-and it was happening much earlier than I’d expected.