Making It Up

He yelled.
Swore.
Raged.
The boy opened his bedroom door because of the noise.
Because he was scared.
He threw the sketchpad and pen down the hall toward the boy's door.
That thrust me into action, calmly, firmly telling him he needed to leave.
He huffed and he puffed and he put on his shoes and left.
Within the minute, he came raging back and I saw him coming.
I quickly gathered the boy together and noted sadly that the boy already had his shoes on.
I felt a brief irrational pang of regret that the boy had ever left the womb-
had ever left that space of buffer and ease of mobility.
I kept him clutched to me as I gathered,
keys, money, bus tickets, umbrella.
We left, even as He told us we weren't to leave.
We left and I was grateful He did not follow.

6 hellish hours later of balancing "fun outing" with honest processing,
my focus on the boy and his confused sadness,
we returned for the boy's bedtime.

He sat across from me, a small blue vase of wrinkled discount roses between us.
He wants to know how to make it up to me.

I think to myself,
That's the problem.
You're always making it up, a play, a scene.
It's all invention.

I look at Him and say
"I don't know."
And I don't.

How can I trust a script?