“That’s right; I did.”

“Is it true it was only $1,000?”

Only? Clearly, she didn’t understand.

“It’s not about the money anymore,” I said. “I can’t keep doing this.” Once again the tears came. I was so bone-tired from the tears, pain, anguish, and fear for his life.

“His landlord evicted him,” my friend continued. “He has to move, and it’s stressing him out. He says they haven’t got a case. There weren’t any drugs in the house.”

I wasn’t about to get into an argument with my friend; she had no idea the long list of items the SWAT team had removed from his home. She didn’t understand how many times I had sat in a courtroom listening to charges brought against my son. She had no concept of the pain I felt every time I saw my only child in handcuffs and leg chains — or the feeling of talking to him on a prison phone through thick, plate-glass panels. She hadn’t experienced the never-ending list of excuses.

Then came the pivotal situation that helped remove the blinders from my eyes — the final step in my freedom from bondage.

“Allison,” my friend went on, “he said you put on quite a show in the courtroom. That you cried so everyone would feel sorry for you.”

I’ve never been stabbed, but I imagine the pain I felt in my heart at that moment was close to what it would feel like.

“What?” I stammered.

“He said you were crying so people would feel sorry for you.”

I got off the phone as quickly as possible before my friend could discern that I was crying once again, this time going from anguish to anger as her words sank in.

He thought I was crying to gain sympathy?   

Clearly, my son was unaware of the depth of my pain — and therefore, I also assumed, the depth of my love. All the years I had come to his rescue out of love for him, out of a desire to keep him safe, to help during his trials and tribulation, all for naught. He didn’t get it. He never got it. Not only didn’t he get it, but he didn’t appreciate it.

And at that moment I suddenly realized with crystal clarity that instead of helping him, my actions had hindered him. He had no idea how to feel remorse, empathy, or shame. In fact, I feared he had no idea how to feel at all, and I doubted he knew his behavior was wrong.

Gaining this new level of understanding was like giving sight to a blind man. The remembrance of the raw pain that had coursed through my weary body in that courtroom came back in waves as I weighed the reality of my feelings with my son’s twisted perception of them.

Sympathy? Dear Lord, help me to understand this.

I’d stopped the flow of money long before, yet I still supplied him with “things” that cost me money, so in reality I hadn’t stopped the flow of money at all. I still listened to his never-ending litany of excuses for his circumstances, wanting so much to believe. I showed up yet again in a courtroom to lend my support, to offer my unconditional love, to show him that no matter what he did I still loved him and would be there for him.