Chapter 68 – A Mother's Reactions
My name is Sarah Anderson. Some know me as Matt's wife. Others as Mrs. Anderson. But there's one title that weighs heavier than all the rest: mother.
Not because I don't feel it. But because I never knew how to live it.
I was a young, hardworking girl, raised in a family where effort was law. My parents were people of schedules, of goals, of results. There was no room for pause. No time for tenderness. Love was measured in what was achieved, not in what was said.
I met Matt when we were young. We fell in love quickly. We married without a big ceremony, because we had to be back at work on Monday. That was our life. That was how we understood it.
And then… Cody came.
We didn't plan him. We didn't expect him. But he came.
And with him came something that wasn't in any manual. Something that couldn't be scheduled. Something that couldn't be delegated.
Motherhood.
And I… I didn't know how to be a mother.
Not because I didn't want to. Because I had never learned it. Because I had never imagined it. Because since I was young, it wasn't my greatest interest. I wanted to work. I wanted to grow. I wanted to achieve.
But when I saw him for the first time, so small, so fragile, so mine… something changed.
I didn't know how to care for him. But I knew I loved him.
I didn't know how to talk to him. But I knew I wanted to listen.
I didn't know how to play with him. But I knew I wanted to see him laugh.
Cody was a surprise. But he was also a revelation.
And although I was never the perfect mother, although I had many flaws, I did what I could.
I was there. More than Matt, at least. Not out of competition. Out of necessity. Because someone had to be.
And Cody… Cody came to me.
With every problem. With every doubt. With every fear.
Not always with words. Sometimes with gestures. Sometimes with silences. Sometimes with a look that said, "Can I trust you?"
And I… I tried to answer "yes," even when I didn't always know how.
I remember the first time he liked a girl.
He was small. Very small. He had that nervous smile he still carries. He told me he wanted to buy her flowers. That he wanted to impress her. That he wanted her to notice him.
And I… I almost died of jealousy.
Not because of the girl. Because of what it meant.
Because for the first time, my son wanted to give love to someone else. Because for the first time, I wasn't the one occupying his heart.
But he was my son. And I loved him.
So I took him to buy the flowers. I helped him choose them. I watched him rehearse what he would say. And I accompanied him, from a distance, as he gave them to her.
And though it hurt… it also made me happy.
Because Cody was growing. Because Cody was feeling. Because Cody was learning to love.
And that… that is what I most wish for him.
Even if I don't always say it. Even if I don't always show it. Even if I don't always understand it.
Matt and I weren't there for much of his life.
Not out of malice. Out of habit. Out of ignorance. Out of fear.
We filled the gaps with material things. With gifts. With technology. With things we thought were enough.
But they weren't.
Because Cody needed presence. He needed listening. He needed company.
And we… we didn't know how to give it.
And then, everything changed.
When we came back from a trip, we saw him.
And I didn't recognize him.
The thin, nervous, timid boy… was gone.
In his place was a tall, strong, confident young man. With a different gaze. With a firm posture. With an energy we didn't know.
And that… worried me.
Because for such a radical change, only a deep trauma can provoke it.
And again… we weren't there.
We weren't there when he needed us.
We weren't there when he broke.
We weren't there when he decided to rebuild.
And that… that hurts.
Not as guilt. As truth.
Because being a mother isn't just giving life.
It's being in it.
And I… I'm still learning how to do that.
---
We came back after two months. Not from vacation. From work. From those projects that seem more important than everything else until you realize what you left behind.
Matt and I had been away. In another country. In another routine. In another rhythm. And though we talked about Cody through messages, though we asked if everything was fine, the truth is we didn't know anything. Not really.
Cody had stayed home. Alone. Again.
And when we opened the door, the first thing we felt was silence.
Not uncomfortable silence. The silence that announces something has changed.
The house was clean. Ordered. With a calm that wasn't normal. Not for Cody. Not for us.
"Is he asleep?" Matt asked.
"Not at this hour," I said.
We went upstairs. Without speaking. With that kind of tension you don't name but you feel.
The door to his room was ajar.
And we saw him.
And I didn't recognize him.
It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't an exaggeration. It was literal.
Cody was sitting on the edge of his bed, back to us, in a sleeveless shirt and sweatpants. His back was broad. His arms defined. His posture firm. His neck straight. His hair shorter, neater. His body… was that of an adult.
I froze.
Matt did too.
We looked at each other, as if we were seeing a stranger in our son's room.
But it was him.
Cody.
He turned when he heard us. He looked at us. He smiled.
"Hi," he said, as if nothing.
And I… I didn't know what to say.
Because the Cody we had left behind was someone else.
He was the thin, nervous boy who hid behind jokes and video games. The one who avoided looking us in the eyes. The one who seemed to ask permission to exist.
And now… he was a man.
Over six feet tall. Muscular. Confident. With a gaze that didn't seek approval. With a presence that didn't ask permission.
And that… scared me.
Not because I didn't like what I saw. Because I didn't understand how it had happened.
Because for someone to change like that, so radically, something must have broken first.
And we… we weren't there.
We weren't there when he broke.
We weren't there when he decided to change.
We weren't there when he looked in the mirror and said, "This isn't me."
And that… that hurt me more than anything else.
Because if something so big happened, and we didn't know, it's because we weren't present. Not emotionally. Not really.
Cody stood up. He hugged us. With strength. With calm. With a tenderness that wasn't the same as before.
And I… I felt small.
Not because of his size. Because of the distance.
During those first days, I watched him.
I saw him train in the yard. I saw him cook. I saw him read. I saw him play music. I saw him move through the house with a confidence he had never had.
And I asked myself, again and again: When did this happen? Where was I?
I tried to get closer. With soft questions. With gestures. With shared silences.
And he… he let me in. Little by little.
Not with big confessions. With moments.
One night, while folding clothes in his room, he said:
"Did you know I used to hate looking in the mirror?"
I stopped.
"And now?" I asked.
"Now it doesn't bother me. But it wasn't because of the muscles. It was because of what I understood in the process," he said.
And I… I didn't know how to respond.
Because I understood his change wasn't just physical. It was emotional. It was symbolic. It was a way of rebuilding himself from the ruins.
And we… we hadn't seen the collapse.
But he didn't blame us.
He didn't say it. But it showed.
He treated us with respect. With affection. But with a new distance. As if he no longer expected anything from us. As if he had already learned to live without our guidance.
And that… that broke me.
Because being a mother isn't just giving life.
It's being in it.
And I… I wasn't.
Not when he needed me most.
But that month, the one we had before he left for the program, was a gift I hadn't asked for, but one I thank for every day.
I tried to be there. To listen. To ask. To hug him.
And he… he let me.
Not like before. Not like a mother who guides. Like a mother who accompanies.
And that… that was enough.
For now.
---
The morning Cody left for the program, the sky was clear.
The kind of sky that seems to mock your nerves. Everything was calm—except me.
We had spent a month together. A month we didn't deserve, but that he gave us. A month in which I saw him move around the house as if he no longer needed permission to exist. A month in which I heard him speak with confidence, with humor, with a maturity I didn't know he had.
And now… he was leaving.
Not out of rebellion. Out of choice.
He had agreed to participate in a competition show. An island. A group of teenagers. A host with a reputation for cruelty. Physical challenges. Cameras. Exposure.
When he told us, I thought it was a joke.
"A reality show? You?" I asked.
"Yes. I want to do it," Cody said.
Matt looked at him with caution. I with disbelief.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I want to test myself. Because I want to live something different. Because I want to be seen," Cody said.
And that… that hurt.
Because that last phrase wasn't about the audience. It was about us.
He wanted us to see him. To recognize him. To accept him.
And I… I didn't know how to respond.
The days before his departure were strange. Cody was excited. He packed his backpack. Read the contract. Researched the other participants. Trained. Laughed.
And I… I watched him.
Not with judgment. With fear.
Because I knew I couldn't stop him. But I also didn't know how to let him go.
The night before he left, I went into his room. He was lying down, staring at the ceiling. I sat beside him. I didn't say anything.
"Are you nervous?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Me too. But it's a good kind of nervous," he said.
"And if something goes wrong?" I asked.
"Then I'll learn," he said.
And that… broke me.
Because Cody was no longer the child who needed us to guide him. He was the young man who had learned to walk alone. And I… I still wanted to hold his hand.
Morning came.
A car would pick him up. A producer was waiting. A contract would protect him—or so they said.
Cody came downstairs with his backpack on his shoulder. In a simple t-shirt. With that calm smile he now wore like a shield.
Matt hugged him. I did too.
But the hug I gave him was different.
It wasn't the hug of a mother who clings to her son.
It was the hug of a mother who recognizes her son no longer belongs to her.
"Take care," I said.
"Do what makes you happy," Matt said.
"See you soon," Cody said.
And then he left.
The car drove off. The door closed. Silence returned.
And I… I sat on the couch. Not knowing what to do with so much space.
Matt walked around the house as if searching for something. I just wanted time to pass quickly. For the show to start. For us to see him. For us to know he was okay.
But also… I wanted him to stay.
I wanted him to stay so I could keep getting to know him. So I could keep asking for forgiveness. So I could keep telling him I love him.
Because even if I never knew how to show it, Cody is the most important thing I have.
And now… he was on an island. With cameras. With challenges. With strangers.
And I… could only wait.
---
**The first episode aired a week after Cody left.**
By then, the house already felt different. Not empty. Silent. As if his absence had left a mark we didn't know how to fill.
Matt and I sat on the couch as if we were about to watch a movie. But it wasn't fiction. It was our son. On screen. In real time.
My heart raced. Not because of the show. Because of what it meant.
Because for the first time, we were going to see Cody from the outside. From the eyes of others. From a camera that didn't protect him. From a world that owed him no tenderness.
The episode began with the arrival of the campers. A boat. A dock. A host with a shark's smile. Chris McLean. The man who, according to my searches, had a reputation for cruelty, unpredictability, for playing with limits.
And there was Cody.
Stepping off the bus. Smiling. Greeting. With that mix of nerves and excitement you only have when you're about to start something big.
My heart tightened.
Because I saw him happy.
And that… scared me.
Not because I didn't want him to be. Because I knew that kind of happiness came with risks.
The host explained the rules. The teams. The dynamics. Everything seemed designed to provoke tension, conflict, spectacle.
And I… only wanted Cody to be safe.
But then, something changed.
Cody began to speak. To move. To joke. To participate.
And he stood out.
Not like the boy who seeks attention. Like the young man who knows who he is.
And that… surprised me.
Because for years, Cody was the one who hid. The one who avoided the spotlight. The one who preferred to observe.
And now… he was part of the group.
With voice. With presence. With humor.
Matt smiled. I did too. But not completely.
Because while I was glad to see him like that, it also hurt to know that change had happened far from us.
And then, the girls appeared.
One by one, they were introduced. Some with energy. Others with attitude. Some with mystery.
And I… began to watch with different eyes.
Not as a spectator. As a mother.
Because I knew Cody, though strong, though confident, was still sensitive. Still seeking connection. Still wanting to be seen.
And then, I saw them.
Lindsay.
Blonde. Sweet. Distracted. With a smile that seemed not to understand everything happening, but lit up the screen.
Bridgette.
Athletic. Calm. With a clear gaze. With a tranquil energy. With a voice that didn't need to shout to be heard.
And I… bet on them.
Not for beauty. For intuition.
Because Lindsay had that tenderness that could touch Cody's heart. Because Bridgette had that calm that could hold him when he doubted.
Matt bet on others. Gwen. Heather. The ones with more edge. More mystery. More intensity.
But I… trusted in gentleness.
"Lindsay or Bridgette," I said.
"Are you betting?" Matt asked.
"No. I'm wishing," I said.
Because more than winning, I wanted Cody to find someone who saw him. Who listened to him. Who understood him.
The episode went on. The kids settled in. Introduced themselves. Made jokes.
Cody talked with several. Smiled. Observed.
And I… watched him as if it were the first time.
Because seeing him on screen, without filters, without control, without protection… was like meeting him again.
And I realized something.
Cody hadn't just changed on the outside.
He had changed inside.
He was no longer the boy waiting to be chosen.
He was the young man who knew he could choose.
And that… gave me hope.
Because even though we weren't there for his process, even though we didn't accompany him in his transformation, he had reached a place where he could be himself.
And I… only wanted him to be cared for.
To be respected.
To be loved.
That's why I bet on Lindsay. On Bridgette.
Because I saw in them something that could touch him without hurting him.
And even though the game was just beginning, even though everything was uncertain, even though the show was designed for chaos…
I saw my son.
And I saw him happy.
And that… for now, was enough.
---
**The second episode was the first that made me scream.**
Not out of excitement. Out of fear.
The night before, I hadn't slept well. Since Cody left, my body had become more alert. As if every cell were waiting for a signal. As if something in me knew what was coming wouldn't be easy.
Matt made coffee. I sat with my arms crossed. The TV was on. My heart raced.
The episode began with an aerial view of the island. Tense music. Sarcastic comments from the host. And then, the announcement of the challenge.
Jumps from a cliff.
Into the sea.
With sharks.
I froze.
"Is this even legal?" I asked.
Matt didn't answer. He just leaned toward the screen, as if he could stop what was coming.
The campers were lined up. Some trembling. Others mocking. Cody was there. Serious. Focused. With that expression he now wore when facing something difficult.
And then, the host pointed at him.
"Come on, Cody! Show us what you're made of!" he said.
And he… jumped.
Without hesitation.
Without looking back.
Without asking permission.
My body tensed. My throat closed. My heart stopped.
Matt shouted. I did too.
"What is he doing?! Why doesn't he refuse?!" I said.
"I'm going for him! I don't care about the contract!" Matt shouted.
He was already looking for flights. Boats. Lawyers. I was calling the production company. Anyone. Anyone who could stop this.
But then, we saw him come out of the water.
Whole.
Smiling.
And something in me broke.
Not because he was fine. Because he had done it.
Because my son—the one who once avoided swimming lessons, who cried when he fell off his bike, who was afraid of big dogs… now threw himself into the sea from a cliff.
And not out of pressure.
Out of choice.
The others looked at him with surprise. Some applauded. Others followed. Cody had become the center of the show.
And I… I didn't know how to feel.
Pride. Fear. Awe. Guilt.
All at once.
After the jump came another challenge. Build an improvised jacuzzi. More technical. More calm. Cody and his team solved it quickly. With efficiency. With leadership.
And I… I saw him lead.
Not like the boy who waits for instructions.
Like the young man who knows what he's doing.
Matt smiled. I did too. But with tears in my eyes.
Because I understood that Cody wasn't just surviving.
He was shining.
And that… hurt me.
Because that shine was built without us.
Because that courage was cultivated in silence.
Because that strength was born from a pain we never saw.
After the episode, we received messages.
Friends. Family. People who had watched.
"Your son stole the show!"
"How brave!"
"What a change!"
And I… I just wanted to hug him.
Not to congratulate him.
To ask for forgiveness.
Because even though I admired him now, I also knew that Cody was born from an absence.
Ours.
---