He would claim his stomach hurt, or he had a massive headache, or he was too stressed about a biology exam to eat. When I finally forced him to sit at the table with me, he would just push the food around his plate, taking agonizingly tiny bites and chewing them for what felt like minutes.

The physical toll was rapid and frightening. In just three weeks, he dropped twenty-two pounds. His cheekbones jutted out sharply against his pale skin. His favorite hoodies began to swallow his frame entirely. The light in his eyes dulled, replaced by heavy, dark circles that made him look perpetually exhausted.

I tried everything. I made his favorite meals, I offered to take him to any restaurant he wanted, I asked if he was being bullied at school. I even asked gently if he was worried about his body image. He denied it all, retreating further and further behind his bedroom door.

The dam finally broke yesterday afternoon. I was at work when an email popped up on my phone from his history teacher, Mr. Harrison. It was marked urgent. He told me that my son had nearly fainted during third period. He was pale, dizzy, and couldn’t stand up from his desk.

When the teacher tried to send him to the nurse or offer him a granola bar, my son panicked and flat-out refused, curling inward and shutting down. The quiet, nagging worry I had been trying to suppress erupted into full-blown panic. I left work early, drove home with my heart hammering against my ribs, and waited for him to get off the bus.

When he walked through the front door, looking so incredibly fragile, I didn’t yell. I didn’t scold him. I gently took his backpack, guided him to the kitchen table, and sat down across from him.

The same table where I had thrown those terrible words at him weeks prior.

“I need to know what’s going on,” I said, my voice cracking as tears finally spilled down my cheeks. “You’re disappearing, baby. You’re starving yourself. Please, you have to tell me what’s wrong.” For a long time, the only sound in the kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator.

He kept his eyes glued to the wood grain of the table, his breathing shallow. Then, without a word, he unzipped his backpack, pulled out his laptop, and opened it. He typed his password, pulled up a browser window, and slowly turned the screen toward me.

My heart plummeted into my stomach, the blood rushing in my ears. Displayed on the glowing screen were fourteen pages of public court records. At the top was a case number: 2014-CR-4471. It was his father’s name. It was the criminal file from when his father was sent to prison thirteen years ago, when my son was only two years old.

The charge was written in stark, clinical text: Aggravated assault. But it was the detailed reports that made my breath catch in my throat.