Chapter 4
On the drive home, Jillian waited until Patrick had turned onto the highway. Then she asked Cody, “Do you still want the animation program?”
He stared out the window. “Maybe.”
“You wanted it last week.”
“I know.”
“What changed?”
“Nothing.”
Jillian lowered her voice. “Cody.”
He sighed. “Grandpa just buried his son. What am I supposed to do? Tell him I’d rather spend the summer drawing cartoons?”
Jillian turned toward him. “You’re not responsible for fixing his grief.”
Cody’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t say I was.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Patrick looked at them through the mirror. “Can we not make this bigger than it is?”
Jillian faced him. “What exactly is it?”
“Just a dinner. And after the dinner—” Patrick hesitated. “Maybe some time at the company.”
“Did Cody ask for that?”
“He doesn’t know if he likes it yet.”
Cody suddenly said, “Can you guys stop?”
Silence filled the car.
That night, Jillian passed Cody’s bedroom and saw a light beneath the door. She knocked once. No answer. She opened it slightly.
Cody had fallen asleep at his desk. His laptop remained open. Jillian moved closer to turn it off. Then she saw the email on the screen.
Dear Admissions Team, thank you for considering my portfolio. Because of a family obligation, I may need to withdraw my application.
Jillian stopped reading. She closed the laptop. For several seconds, she stood beside the sleeping boy. Then she noticed Shawn’s watch lying beside his hand. And underneath it was another drawing.
The same oversized chair. Only this time, Cody had drawn ropes around the boy sitting inside it.
Jillian quietly covered him with a blanket. Her eyes burned.
The next morning, she waited until Cody came downstairs. “Did somebody tell you to withdraw from Brooklyn?”
Cody froze. “No.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
His face tightened. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looked at her, exhausted. For one painful second, Jillian saw the little boy who had once called her mom from an emergency room bed.
Then Cody whispered, “I don’t think I’m allowed to want it anymore.”
Jillian carried Cody’s words with her all morning. I don’t think I’m allowed to want it anymore. She had heard teenagers say painful things before. In fifteen years as a guidance counselor, she had sat across from students afraid of disappointing parents, losing scholarships, coming out, changing majors, leaving home.
But hearing those words from Cody felt different. This was not a student in her office. This was the boy she had helped raise. And somewhere between Shawn’s funeral and Malcolm’s quiet conversations, Cody had begun treating his own future like something he needed permission to keep.
At lunch, Jillian walked to the digital arts room. Renee Lawson was alone, grading projects.
“Can I ask you about Shawn?”
Renee looked up. “Of course.”
“You said he helped Cody with the Brooklyn program.”
“He did.”
“How involved was he?”
Renee closed her laptop. “More than Cody probably told you.”
Jillian sat down. Renee explained that Shawn had visited the school three times during the previous year. The first time, he had stood awkwardly near the classroom door wearing work boots and a Bannon Materials jacket.
“He looked terrified,” Renee said.
Jillian almost smiled. “Of what?”
“Art school. He asked me whether animation was a real career. Then he apologized because he thought that sounded insulting.”
Jillian could hear Shawn saying it.
“What did you tell him?”
“That it’s competitive. That talent matters, but discipline matters more. That Cody has both.”
Renee opened a folder and pulled out several printed portfolio pages. “Shawn asked practical questions. Tuition. Housing. Scholarships. Job placement. Whether Cody needed to attend an expensive private college. He wasn’t dreaming for him. He was trying to understand the road.”
“Why didn’t he tell Patrick?”
Renee hesitated. “I assumed he had.”
“He didn’t.”
Renee leaned back. “There was one thing Shawn said that stuck with me.”
Jillian waited.
“He said, ‘His father loves him. His grandfather loves him. Sometimes that’s the problem.'”
Jillian felt something tighten in her chest. Not because Shawn had hated his family. He clearly had not. That made the sentence worse.
“Did he explain?”
“No. But I remember telling him that Cody would need people around him who could let the choice belong to Cody.”
Jillian stared at the artwork. “Did Shawn agree?”
“He said, ‘Somebody better make sure that happens.'”
That evening, Jillian found Cody in the basement editing his unfinished animation. The boy in the film still stood before the door he had drawn. He had not opened it.
Jillian sat on the old couch. “You know, I talked to Miss Lawson.”
Cody’s shoulders stiffened. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to understand.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything bad.”
“I know.”
He kept his eyes on the computer. Jillian asked gently, “Why did Uncle Shawn take you to Brooklyn?”
Cody stopped moving the mouse. For several seconds, only the soft hum of the computer filled the room.
Then he said, “Because I asked him.”
“Why him?”
Cody swallowed. “Because Dad was busy.”
That answer hurt more than Jillian expected. “And me?”
“I thought you’d tell Dad.”
“I probably would have.”
“I know.” He looked ashamed.
Jillian moved closer. “I’m not angry.”
Cody nodded, but his eyes were wet. “He picked me up at six in the morning. Complained about traffic the whole way.”
Jillian smiled. “That sounds like Shawn.”
“We did the tour. He asked more questions than anybody’s parents.” Cody gave a small laugh. “He asked one teacher if robots were going to replace animators.”
Jillian laughed too.
Then Cody’s expression collapsed. “Afterward, we went to this diner.” His voice grew quieter. “He asked me what I would choose if everybody in the family had a vote except me.”
Jillian felt tears gathering. “What did you say?”
“Animation.”
“And what did Shawn say?”
Cody looked down at his hands. “He said, ‘Somebody better make sure I get a vote.'”
A tear slipped down Cody’s cheek. He wiped it away quickly. “He was going to talk to Dad after Christmas. About the program. About everything.”
Jillian understood. Shawn had not been trying to pull Cody away from the family. He had been trying to make sure Cody could stand near them without disappearing inside them.
“Why didn’t you tell your dad after Shawn died?”
Cody stared at her as if the answer were obvious. “Dad was destroyed. You were grieving too.”
“He lost his brother. You lost your uncle.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
Cody’s voice cracked. “Because I’m the kid.”
There it was. The quiet cruelty children sometimes accepted without anyone teaching it directly. Adults were allowed to collapse. Children were expected to become easier.
Jillian moved beside him. “You are sixteen years old. It is not your job to make every adult in this family feel better.”
Cody’s face crumpled. “I don’t want Grandpa to think I didn’t love Uncle Shawn.”
May you like
Jillian put her arms around him. “Wanting your own life does not dishonor someone who died.”
Cody began to cry against her shoulder. Not loudly. Just the exhausted crying of a boy who had been holding too much for too long.
