Not the quiet, careful crying he did at home so he wouldn’t upset anyone. Big, loud, shaking sobs, with his face pressed into my coat. My mother knelt beside us and wrapped her arms around both of us.
People walked past. Lawyers with briefcases. A woman with a toddler. The bailiff from the courtroom, who paused, put his hand on Nolan’s head for a second, and kept walking.
When Nolan could finally talk, he looked up at me with red eyes.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
“Mad?” I said. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because I didn’t tell you,” he said. “About the video. I had it for five days.”
I sat down on the hallway floor so we were eye to eye.
“Why didn’t you tell me, honey?”
Nolan wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Because you were already so sad,” he said. “Every night. You cried in the bathroom with the water on. I heard you.”
My heart broke all over again.
“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he said. “And I didn’t know if the video would help or if it would just make you cry more. So I thought I’d keep it in the secret pocket until I was sure.”
“When did you know you were sure?” my mother asked gently.
Nolan looked at her.
“When the man held up my picture,” he said. “And said Mom couldn’t keep me clean.”
He looked down at his shirt. At the stains. At the tiny silver moon.
