The whole thing was so surreal. I just couldn’t fathom that Danny’s friend would hit on me like that. The mere fact was so shocking to me that I’d been in denial about it practically the entire day, making up excuses for what Johan had said and how he’d been looking at me. But these excuses had led me into a situation where this younger man, this 19-year-old German boy from South Africa, had somehow managed to gain the upper hand.
How had that happened so quickly? How was it even possible? In the middle of the night, it seemed like it had to have been a nightmare.
But the next day I awoke to find that it was all too real. There, waiting on my phone, were two messages.
One was from Steve: “GOOD LUCK TODAY”
The other was from Johan: “Send pussy”
Immediately, I deleted the message and blocked the number, but I was completely rattled, and I knew Danny would be able to sense it.
All things considered, I managed to hold things together, but only just barely. I was a shell of myself, struggling to stay present, anxiety prickling the back of neck as I tried to stay positive and be Danny’s support system. But I was barely there, paralyzed by fear and completely distracted by thoughts of what Johan might do next.
The day started off okay, with Danny playing well. But as it wore on, it became increasingly clear that Johan was icing him out. They didn’t sit together at lunch, and Johan conspicuously gave Danny the cold shoulder after he won his first few events. The worst thing about it was that Danny had no idea what was going on, and there was no way that I could explain it to him. For most boys Danny’s age, this would be a minor matter, but for my son–with everything that Johan meant to him–I knew it was devastating.
I’d avoided Johan all day, but by that evening, I could tell Danny was on the verge of a total meltdown. He had survived the first day in decent position, but the next day of the championships would be critical, as they would determine whether he would defend his world championship titles in the 4×4 and 5×5 events.
Sitting in our hotel room, watching Danny fumble morosely with his cube, I felt that same sense of failure that I’d felt during the early years before his diagnosis. I knew that my son was in pain, but I felt powerless to help him.
Except… I knew I wasn’t powerless. And that was the problem.
Hesitantly, I picked up my phone and unblocked the number from that morning.
“Have dinner with us,” I wrote. “Danny really needs to know you’re still rooting for him.”
Instantly, I saw the three bubbles, showing that Johan was typing.
My phone dinged. It was an eye-rolling emoji.
I took a deep breath.
“You can keep the photo,” I wrote reluctantly. “Just don’t share it with anyone. And be kind to my son for the next two days, okay?”
More bubbles. And then:
“Send pussy”
“No,” I wrote back frantically. “I’m married.”
Eye-roll emoji.
“Why are you doing this to Danny?” I wrote. “Why are you doing this to me???”
Devil horns emoji.
I felt myself tearing up, but I knew I couldn’t let Danny see me cry. I got up, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door behind me.