When I saw my little boy sitting alone at the bus stop, clutching his backpack and crying, I knew something was terribly wrong. But I didn’t yet know how deep the truth would cut.

People say Alabama heat fades after July, but it sticks around — in your shirt collar, in your shoes, and in your worries. I was forty-six, powered by gas-station coffee and discount mascara, the kind of tired that lives in your bones. My gray roots — my “sparkles,” as Noah called them — caught the sunlight that morning.

“Mom, your sparkles are showing again,” he said, squinting at my hair.

“They’re not sparkles, they’re wisdom.”

“You said sparkles yesterday.”

“Wise sparkles,” I told him.

He laughed, small boots thumping against the floor. Six years old, all elbows and hope. My ex, Travis, used to say my shape made him “tired to look at.” He wanted a life with patios and live music; I just wanted a fan that actually oscillated. Continues…