Chapter Text
The courtroom smelled like dust and coffee. Vance sat on the wooden bench beside his mom, her hand trembling around his. He kept staring at the floor. His sneakers didn’t quite touch the ground. His name had already been called once. The judge’s voice was calm, but it still made his stomach twist.
He did not want to talk. Talking was hard even when he was not scared. The words got stuck in his throat and felt heavy, like stones that wanted to fall back down into his stomach. The lawyer said he had to tell the truth, had to say what happened when Dad got mad, what he had seen, what had happened to him and his mama.
When he finally spoke, the sentences were short.
"He yells at mama, at me sometimes. It's scary when he's home." Julianne squeezed her eyes shut when Vance looked at her; she was crying. Vance’s throat burned, and his eyes felt heavy, but he kept going. The lawyer said that saying it out loud helped people believe you.
He told the judge about the nights when Dad would stomp through the house. Bottles broken, doors slammed. He told them how Vance would pull his blanket over his head and try not to breathe too loudly. How his mama flinched when Dad raised his voice, and how sometimes Vance tried to help his mama get away from him and would get in between them.
"Does your father ever hit you and your mother?" The lawyer asked.
"He hits mama at night," Vance replied, picking at the skin on the back of his hand.
"Does he ever hit you?" The lawyer asked again
"Yes."
Weeks later, Vance sat in a small office with his mom and a doctor. He had been struggling with school for years, but after the divorce, his school didn't improve the way they thought it would. The doctor asked questions. Vance answered as best he could.
From across the room, he heard his mom whispering.
“...he’s had a rough start. He was exposed to drugs when he was very young. My ex-husband was a dealer.”
Vance’s stomach twisted. He didn't know how to feel. His mom’s voice sounded small, guilty. He looked at her, and she gave him a tight, apologetic smile. Vance hated it when she was sad.
The doctor nodded, taking notes. “We’ll do some additional tests for learning disabilities.”
Vance stared at the floor, feeling the familiar weight of nerves settling into his chest. His mom’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, but he barely noticed.
He was led to a small room filled with puzzles, blocks, and papers with strange shapes and letters. The doctor explained what he needed to do. “Stack the blocks as high as you can. Draw what you see. Write your name here. Then we’ll do some talking exercises too.”
Vance did what he could. The blocks wobbled in his hands. Letters felt like they jumped around on the paper. When it came to speaking, the words sometimes didn’t come out right, even when he knew exactly what he wanted to say. Sometimes he pointed instead of saying a word. His throat tightened when he tried to answer questions, the sounds jumbled and broken.
Every day for two weeks, he returned to the room. Puzzles, blocks, writing, and speaking exercises. He felt like he was failing, like the paper and the words knew more than he did.
Finally, on the last day, the doctor called them into the office and handed Julianne a stack of papers, filled with charts, notes, and assessments. When Vance looked at them; the words jumped off the page in a way he didn’t understand.
Julianne turned to him, her voice gentle. “Vance, this tells us why some things are hard for you, and how we can help.” She pointed to the first word.
“Dysgraphia. That’s why writing can feel tricky, or when the blocks you stacked fell over.”
She showed him another word. “Speech apraxia. That’s why saying certain words can be hard. Your brain knows what to say, but your mouth doesn’t always cooperate.”
Finally, she pointed to the last word. “ADHD. That’s why it’s hard to focus sometimes, why sitting still feels so hard.”
Vance didn’t say anything at first. The words felt heavy, strange, like labels he wasn’t sure he wanted. But his mama seemed so happy to have the paper, and she smiled again when the doctor handed her a list with numbers and names.
Julianne squeezed his hand. “None of this is your fault, honey. It’s just part of how your brain works. We’ll figure it out.”
Vance held his mom's hand all the way out to the car and back to their new small apartment. All of the new words swam around in his head in a way he didn't quite understand yet. He heard his mom dial the new doctors from the list of names.
The office smelled like peppermint tea and books. Vance sat on the couch, his sneakers swinging above the carpet. The cushions were soft but didn’t quite reach the ground when he sat back. Across from him, a woman with soft eyes and a notebook that never seemed to stop moving watched him quietly.
She asked, “How do you feel when you get angry?”
Vance didn’t know what to say. His throat felt tight. Talking had always been hard, like trying to push a heavy stone up a hill. The words got stuck, or sometimes they came out wrong. He wished he could explain that. He shrugged. He didn’t know whether he felt anger, fear, or something else. Maybe all at once. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.
“What do you do when it’s too much?”
He shrugged again. Sometimes he yelled, sometimes he froze, sometimes he hid under blankets. None of it made sense to him, and saying it out loud felt weird, like the actions didn’t belong to him.
She waited. She didn’t push. Her pen moved across the page in quiet, gentle strokes, and that made the silence feel less like pressure and more like space.
After a while, she asked, “Can you tell me about your family? Who do you live with?”
Vance glanced at his mom, sitting beside him. His voice came quietly, low but steady. “Mama. She… she takes care of me.”
She nodded and wrote something down. “Do you miss your dad?”
Vance’s stomach twisted. He shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. The name felt heavy, like dragging a stone through water. He didn’t say more.
For the rest of the session, the therapist asked gentle questions, and Vance mostly stayed quiet. He picked at the skin on the back of his neck and watched the skin turn pink when he pulled on it. He watched the woman's pen move across the notebook, listened to the faint hum of the heater, and the soft ticking of a clock. When the session ended, his mom took him to the other doctor.
The next place smelled like polished wood and guitar strings. Guitars hung on the walls, some shiny and new, some worn smooth from years of hands brushing over them. Vance’s other therapist was different, Mom said he wasn't for feelings, but to help with the new words the puzzle doctor gave them. Mr. Daryl had a calm energy and wore big, brown rimmed glasses.
“Music can help,” he said, leaning on the edge of the table. “It’s rhythm and pattern. It can train your brain and your hands at the same time.”
Vance didn’t really understand. His hands felt clumsy, like they belonged to someone else. He sat on the stool, staring at the guitar in front of him, and lifted his fingers. The first time he strummed a chord, it buzzed and rattled in a way that made his stomach twist. He frowned and pulled his fingers back.
"It's ok, no one is perfect the first time." Vance tried again. The second time, it buzzed less.
“Better,” Mr. Daryl said. “Slow and steady. Listen to the rhythm.”
Vance did. He listened to the sound his fingers made, the vibration through the wood, the faint echo across the room. He tried to match it to the beat Mr. Daryl tapped on the table. It was hard. Sometimes his fingers didn’t move like he wanted them to. Sometimes the strings went silent under his hands. Frustration twisted in his chest, but he kept at it.
He started coming twice a week. At first, he just strummed chords and tried to copy patterns. Then Mr. Daryl handed him a notebook. “Try writing some words. We can even write some that go with the guitar music.”
Vance tried to write down words, and they came out in uneven lines. At first, they stumbled across the page, awkward and jagged. But when he tried to sing them, or hum a tune while writing, something shifted. They went onto the page easier and he could focus on them more.
Sometimes he messed up the chords or forgot the tune. Sometimes he wanted to throw the guitar across the room. But each time he strummed a chord correctly a small spark of satisfaction warmed his chest.
By the end of the session, he didn’t feel perfect, didn’t feel like a musician, but he felt… capable. Maybe he couldn’t control everything, maybe his words and hands didn’t always work the way he wanted. But he didn't feel angry when he played the guitar.
His mama spent her first new paycheck on a dark red acoustic guitar. Vance only cried a little when she gave it to him.
When Vance was 11, his mama came home smiling the brightest he had seen in a while,
Actually, Julianne had been smiling more and more that whole year. Her laugh came easier, lighter, and the tight lines around her eyes softened. Vance noticed, even if he didn’t always know how to say it. He liked seeing her happy. He liked holding her hand a little longer, brushing her hair back when it fell in her face, sitting close on the couch to feel the warmth of her presence. He was a huge mama’s boy, always had been, always would be, and he didn’t hide it.
When she told him she was getting married again, he didn’t know what to think. He blinked up at her, quiet, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re… really happy?” he asked softly.
Julianne nodded, squeezing his hand. “I am, honey.”
He smiled a little, brushing his thumb over hers. “I want you to be happy, Mama,” he said. The words felt heavy but honest, and he felt his chest loosen just a bit.
Then came the day he met Griffin, Matthew's son. He remembered standing in the living room, peeking around the corner, heart thumping. Griffin was eight, quiet, freckled, and was clutching a comic book to his chest like a shield. His eyes flicked up at Vance, hesitant, wary.
“Hi,” Griffin said.
“Hey,” Vance managed. His voice sounded small even to him, but steady.
Something in his chest shifted, a little tug of relief. For the first time in years, he wasn’t the youngest, the smallest, or the only one trying to be brave. He could be gentle and soft, and it didn’t make him weak. He could care for someone, protect someone, without feeling scared himself.
He stepped closer, careful. Griffin didn’t move away.
Maybe a brother was a good thing.