far from our finest hour

Hank spent a fair amount of time this evening screaming.

Tolliver was upstairs packing to run away, while Tuck sat at the corner desk, writing us a note in Morse code.

Tols came down a few times to grab things: one drum stick, a plastic dinosaur skeleton, a small throw pillow from the couch.  And to show us things, like the two dollar bill and the "credit card" he could use at the place he planned to go, where there would be "no grown ups."

By the time we got around to using Tucker's dot and dash chart to decipher his message, it was near bedtime.  The note read “I hate parents.”
By this time Hank was calm, and I could hear what Tuck did not say as clearly as the words he chose.

Tollie decided to keep his lock box turned suitcase next to his bed, decided he could wait till tomorrow to leave.
The boys went to bed with books and sweet dreams oil, with back rubs and extra hugs.

I want our house to be a place where the truth always feels safe to tell.  Often, telling things makes them feel lighter and less terrible.
Often, the vulnerability of being known is rewarded with the relief of being loved just the same.