The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema

For breakfast on the morning of the day he disappeared, Brian Page ate most of two scrambled eggs,
three pieces of bacon, and almost two slices of multigrain
toast. After he was gone, his father, Jeff Page, kept
remembering the remaining triangle of hardening bread
on its plate on the kitchen counter, the outline of Brian’s
bite sharp, a bright curve against the right angle.
    It wasn’t just the food that Jeff remembered from that
morning: it was the conversation. It was what his eleven-year-old son had said the last time they had spoken.
    â€œYour mom called last night,” Jeff had said. “After you
were asleep.” He was standing at the stove, cracking four
eggs into a skillet glazed slick with bacon grease.
    Brian was at the table, munching at a strip of bacon
from the platter. He didn’t say anything.
    â€œShe said she’d be here at four to pick you up.” He
scrambled the eggs in the pan, breaking the yolks with the
edge of the flipper, then turning the mass over, folding it in
on itself, the yolk first marbling the white then dissipating
entirely.
    â€œBring me over your plate,” he said, lifting the pan off
the heat. He scraped about half the four eggs onto his son’s
plate, then dumped the remainder onto his own and sat
down at the table across from him.
    â€œDo I have to go?” Brian asked quietly.
    Jeff swallowed a mouthful. “What?”
    â€œI just . . . Do I really have to go to Mom’s this week?”
    â€œWe’ve talked about this. Your mom’s really . . . what’s
up, bud?”
    Brian shrugged and looked down at his plate.
    â€œIs there a problem? Did something happen at your
mom’s place?” It was stupid, he knew, but his mind went
immediately to Bill, Diane’s new boyfriend. It was the way
parents were wired to think, now.
    Brian shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’d just
really like to stay here this week.”
    More than anything, Jeff wanted to give Brian his way.
He wasn’t looking forward to the week on his own, and to
what it portended, and if Brian wanted to stay with him
more than he wanted to visit his mother, wasn’t that the
important thing?
    Instead, he said, “We’ve talked about this, bud. There’s a
lot of stuff to plan, and this is how it works out best.”
    â€œDoesn’t work out best for me,” he said, with the glum
petulance only an eleven-year-old can muster.
    â€œWhat’s this about?” Jeff asked, leaning toward his son.
    â€œNothing.” He pushed his eggs around his plate.
    â€œYour mom’s got a big week planned. I think she wants to
take you to Science World and the aquarium, and maybe to
the movies as well as showing you the school. . . . It sounds
like she’s really looking forward to hanging out with you.
Doesn’t that sound good?”
    Brian took a mouthful of eggs.
    â€œBrian, what’s going on? Did you and your mom have a
fight?” He was surprised he hadn’t heard anything about
this before. Diane was usually good at monitoring and
reporting any problems. “Is there something you want to
talk to me about?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t get it,” he said into his plate. “Why can’t
I just stay here?”
    Jeff wanted to lean forward and touch his son, ruffle
his hair or pull him close, but he knew better. “I know it’s
tough, bud. It’s not easy for any of us.”
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t understand.” He picked up a forkful
of eggs, muttering, “Carly said you wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œUnderstand what?” Jeff asked. “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll
try. I really will.”
    Brian shook his head, and took a bite out of a piece of
bacon he held between his thumb and forefinger as an
uneasy silence settled over the kitchen.
    Carly said you wouldn’t understand.
    Were those really the last words his son had spoken
to him?
    Over