Evan changed after that.
Not in the way people usually imagine grief changing a child.
He didn’t become angry.
He didn’t act out.
He became responsible.
Too responsible.
He started taking out the trash without being asked.
If he noticed I was exhausted, he would make himself a sandwich instead of asking what was for dinner.
At birthdays and Christmas, he stopped requesting gifts.
“I’m good, Mom.”
“I don’t need anything.”
At first, I thought he was simply growing up.
Later, I understood.
At ten years old, Evan had silently decided that he was now the man of the house.
He had seen me crying in the kitchen when I thought he was asleep.
He had seen me shifting bills around the table, trying to make the numbers work.
And somewhere inside that little boy, he had made a decision.
I will not become another thing Mom has to worry about.
So when he said he wanted to work for his own bike, it sounded exactly like him.
“All right,” I said. “But school comes first. If the job becomes too much, you tell me.”
“Deal.”
He grinned and hugged me.
And for one second, all I could think was:
Marcus, you should see him.
Every Saturday after that, Evan left home wearing his oldest jeans and worn sneakers.
He came back smelling like dish soap, fryer oil, coffee, and syrup.
His hands became red and dry from hours in hot water.
Sometimes, while eating dinner, he would flex his fingers and wince.
“How much have you saved?” I would ask.
“Almost enough.”
At first, that made sense.
One month passed.
Then two.
Then three.
Then five.
Still no bike.
That was when I started quietly doing the math.
Evan had told me Sal paid around sixty dollars every Saturday.
Even accounting for the occasional missed shift, he should have earned well over a thousand dollars.
The bike cost about six hundred.
He should have been riding it months ago.
So where was it?
And where was all his money going?
At first, I came up with harmless explanations.
Maybe he had changed his mind and wanted something more expensive.
Maybe there was a girl.
