would eventually reach him.
Every time I tried to step in, he gave me the same answer.
“Mom, please don’t. I’ll handle it.”
One night, I finally asked, “Handle it how, Mason? You barely sleep anymore. You barely even eat dinner with me.”
He only gave me a small smile, the kind someone wears when they know something you don’t.
“Trust me, Mom. Just a little longer.”
For weeks, he spent every afternoon hunched over his laptop, typing and clicking, building something he refused to show me.
Whenever I walked
