My 6-year-old son and I saw a scene at the store where a 7-year-old girl was rolling on the floor, begging her mother to buy something.
My son asked me, “Mom, is she sick?”

I chuckled, half-embarrassed, half-curious what was going through his head. “No, sweetheart. She’s just upset,” I said, nudging the cart forward.

But he didn’t let it go. He kept staring, his eyebrows squished up like he was doing a math problem. Then he asked, “Is she sad like I used to be when Daddy was loud?”

And that stopped me cold.

I crouched beside him, right there in the snack aisle between the Goldfish crackers and dried mango.
“Do you remember that?” I asked softly.

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the girl, whose mom was now muttering something through clenched teeth, pulling her off the floor by the arm.

He didn’t say anything else, but his hand found mine.

That was the first time I realized my son remembered more than I thought he did. Not the fights themselves maybe, but the feelings—the tight air in the house, the way my voice got thinner and thinner, how the walls felt too loud sometimes.

We got our groceries and drove home in silence. But something in me shifted.

I started watching him more closely. Not like a hawk—just tuned in.

That week, I noticed he’d started lining up his animal toys perfectly, by color and size. Not like how he used to do it when he was little and learning. No, this was exact, like he needed it to be right. He’d get frustrated if one of them tipped over or was even a little crooked.

One night, after he was asleep, I sat on the floor in front of those toys and just stared at them. This wasn’t about play. It was about control. Stability. A tiny world he could make perfect when everything else was unpredictable.

I called my sister, Alaya. She’s a pediatric OT, and honestly the most emotionally tuned-in person I know.

“He remembers things,” I told her. “He remembers how it was with Thom. Even if he doesn’t have the words.”

She didn’t sugarcoat it. “Of course he does,” she said. “They always do. But the fact that he asked—that’s good. He’s trying to understand, not just react.”

That stuck with me.

For context, Thom—my ex—wasn’t physically abusive, but emotionally? It was like living in a house with a bomb that might go off if you touched the wrong drawer.
He always had a reason. “You forgot to thaw the chicken.” “Why do you fold the towels that way?”
Nothing that would make a cop show up. But enough to make me shrink.

I finally left when our son, Santi, was four. He was playing with blocks and flinched when Thom raised his voice at the TV.

That was it. The line.

The divorce wasn’t ugly—mostly because Thom didn’t fight me on custody. I think he didn’t want the responsibility. He sees Santi once a month now, usually supervised by his own mother. Honestly, it’s better that way.

But even two years later, I could see the ripples in my boy.

So I started therapy. For both of us.

At first, Santi didn’t want to go. “I’m not broken,” he whispered one morning in the car, buckled in and staring out the window.

I told him neither of us were broken. We were just learning better ways to feel.

He was quiet the whole session, just scribbled on a notepad. The therapist, Mr. Dimas, didn’t push. Just said, “Looks like you’re a great artist,” and smiled at the squiggles like they were masterpieces.

By the fourth session, Santi opened up.

And what he said floored me.

“I don’t like loud voices. Even cartoons. They make my stomach wiggle.”
Mr. Dimas nodded, like this was totally normal. “Like a storm inside?”
“Yeah,” Santi said. “Like thunder in my belly.”

I sat there, blinking too fast.

Over the next few months, we both learned to speak in new ways. Not just talking, but listening to our bodies. I learned that my own need to always be “fine” was something Santi had picked up like secondhand smoke.

So I started being more honest.

One evening, after a long day at work, I said, “I’m feeling tired and grumpy today. Not because of you. Just because grown-up stuff is heavy sometimes.”

He nodded and said, “I can play quiet today.”

That moment was like gold dust in my chest.

But here’s where the twist comes in.

About six months into therapy, I got a call from Thom’s mother—Estela. She was crying.

Thom had been arrested. DUI. Second offense.

She asked if I would bring Santi to visit him in rehab.
I hesitated. Honestly, I didn’t want to. My job was to protect my son, not ferry him into confusion.

But then Santi overheard me talking and asked, “Is Daddy in trouble?”

I didn’t lie. I told him his dad made some unsafe choices, and now he was getting help to make better ones.

He thought for a moment. “Is he trying to fix his thunder?”

That’s how Santi saw it. Not punishment. Healing.

So I agreed. One visit. Only if the therapist thought it was okay.

We drove three hours to the facility. It was clean and quiet, tucked into the hills.

When Thom walked into the visiting room, he looked thinner. Not just in body, but in ego. The edge was gone from his face.

He knelt in front of Santi and whispered, “I’m really sorry, buddy.”

Santi didn’t hug him. He just looked up and asked, “Are you learning to use softer words now?”

And Thom—who used to shout over everything—just nodded, tears in his eyes.

I didn’t expect that visit to matter. I thought it would confuse Santi. But afterward, in the car, he said, “Daddy’s trying. That’s good.”

No bitterness. Just clarity.

Something about that freed me, too.

I stopped seeing myself as the cleanup crew for Thom’s mistakes. I started seeing us—Santi and me—as something whole. Not half of a broken family. But a full, healing one.

Over time, things smoothed out. Santi started kindergarten and made friends who didn’t throw toys when they got mad. He had a teacher, Mrs. Delvi, who taught the class how to take “brain breaks” when feelings got too big.
He came home one day and said, “I taught Luis how to do dragon breaths.”

I asked what that was.

He stood straight, arms out, and said, “You breathe in like a dragon charging up, then blow out slow like you’re blowing fire, but not hurting anyone.”

He made it up, I think. But it was perfect.

We kept going to therapy. Some weeks were light. Others cracked us open.
One day, he drew our old apartment. I asked what it was.

“That’s where the walls were mad,” he said. “But not anymore.”

And eventually, we reached a rhythm.

We cooked together. We laughed more.
I let go of trying to overcorrect every mistake I made.
Sometimes I raised my voice, and I always apologized.
We were learning that love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being safe.

The second twist came last spring.

We were in the park, and a little boy threw a tantrum near the swings. His dad yelled, loud enough that everyone turned.

Santi tugged my sleeve.

“Can I give him my toy?”

It was a small plastic lion he’d won at the dentist.
I asked why.

He shrugged. “He looks like he needs a strong animal.”

So he walked over, knelt by the crying boy, and gently placed the lion in his hand. Then walked back.

The boy stopped crying.

His dad watched, stunned.

And I realized—Santi wasn’t just healing. He was becoming the kind of person who heals.

That’s the reward, isn’t it?

Not just surviving the hard parts—but turning them into something gentler for someone else.

Now, over a year since that day in the grocery store, we talk about feelings like they’re the weather. Sometimes stormy. Sometimes sunny. Always changing.

He still arranges his animal toys sometimes. But now it’s play again. Not survival.

We still have days that feel like uphill climbs. But we also have nights where he falls asleep with his hand in mine, whispering, “We’re safe now, right?”

And I say, “Yes, baby. Always.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: kids don’t need perfect homes. They need honest ones. Soft places to land. Grown-ups who own their mess and still show up.

Healing isn’t fast. Or linear. But it’s real.

And if a six-year-old can teach me that, I figure we’re all capable of more grace than we think.

If this touched you in any way, give it a share—or tag someone who needs the reminder that thunder doesn’t last forever. 💛