It’s January and I get a text. It’s from Brad. He says he’s coming in from California for a few days and wants to hang. Excellent! I tell him I’ll spread the word. I’m sure I can wrangle some of friends to make it a bigger gathering. “Not necessary. I’m just here to catch up with my sister and see a few people.” No problem.

A few days later, he texts again. “Thursday afternoon? After 1 p.m.?” I’d love to, but I really shouldn’t be taking off from work. How about Friday afternoon anytime after 3:30? Not good for him. Maybe Saturday then. I have no kids to manage Saturday or Sunday. Turns out Saturday won’t work for him. Sunday he’s made plans to spend time with his sister. Looks like it’s not going to happen. C’est La Vie.

Sunday morning he calls early (for him). He’s staying in Franklin with his sister. Do I have time now? Sure. I’ll drive over. No, he wants to come to me.

An hour later, he knocks on the door. It’s weird to see him without his wife and kid. We catch up and laugh like we did years ago. Time disappears. I break out the bass guitar and effect pedals from deep in my closet. We play and shoot the shit. There’s a momentary lull. “I came here today to tell you something.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so solemn. “I know what you did, and what you’ve been through.”

He tells me about his mom’s battle with cancer, about how tough it was for her. And how hard it was for his step-father who had to stay strong and maintain normalcy for the family especially when things took a turn for the worse.

“Everyone’s attention was on my mother … no one ever thought about him,” he said. “You’re girls will know what their mom went through, but they’ll probably never know how hard it was for you.” He has no idea. No one does actually. But he invites me to tell my story. And I do.

It’s like a therapy session … one I didn’t even know I needed.