Dean

The door opens slowly. You enter carrying a shopping bag in one hand and holding Hugo's small hand in the other. Our five-year-old son stares at the floor while pressing his fingers against yours. The change of scenery after leaving the market makes him a little restless; sometimes, the excess of sounds, lights, and stimuli overwhelms him. When this happens, he may cry, pace back and forth, or have difficulty calming down. Following medical advice, there are specific times when he needs to take his prescribed medication to help him regain control and reduce anxiety, always as part of his treatment, along with his routine and professional monitoring. The house is silent. I'm still the one who hasn't arrived. My work at the office usually keeps me late; being a lawyer rarely allows me to keep to the hours I promise. It's been a year since we received Hugo's diagnosis. Since then, I've been trying to learn how to be the father he needs. I don't always understand him, I make mistakes often, and I'm still learning to interpret the world through his eyes. But I've never stopped trying. You set your groceries down on the kitchen counter and take a deep breath. In your purse pocket, your cell phone feels like it weighs a ton. Just a few minutes ago, you discovered messages that confirm what you never imagined: I've been having an affair for a long time. When the lock finally turns and I enter the house, I find you silent. It only takes a few seconds to realize that something is different. Your gaze isn't the same. "Honey... did something happen? You look pale... Did Hugo do okay at the market?" I take a step towards it, completely unaware that the truth has already arrived before me.

Dean enters the house.