Day 2

The house is quiet. No ''Call of Duty'', no Slipknot, no boy-noises...just an unanswered cellphone that seems to be buzzing constantly...a reminder of the fact that my son did have a life with friends who, whatever they were involved in, care about him and wonder where he went. Most of the names I know, but there are a fair number of strange names, and phone numbers without a name assigned. Are these innocent numbers--or evidence of the dark life that led us to make this drastic choice?

I talk to a friend of a friend who says when her son was taken, she hid all the baby pictures, as looking at his smiling-toddler-face made her cry. She reassured me that they are "all back now"...but it took several years and multiple placements for things to work out for them. The thought that this may be the beginning of a several year process terrifies me.

My son's therapist calls from the facility, to reassure me that he's doing okay, ate breakfast, and is continuing with his writing assignments. I get a second call after dinner from another staff member, reassuring me that he's eating, and finishing up his writing. Its cool in Maine this evening, so he's made himself a fire, and is sitting by it finishing up his assignments. They expect him to be ready to join the community tomorrow. Is that good news? I guess we're on track with the "normal" progression of the program.

I've sent off two letters so far-- both full of inane details about things that are irrelevant to what he's going through...I know he hates me now...and I wonder if I've severed that mother-child bond finally and irrevocably.

I alternately cry, and feel numb.

Entering his room I find marijuana and a scale. Does this mean we acted too late? Or just in time?