Chapter 4: What Tyler Taught Him
We sat on the small balcony outside our room, the three of us, with the sea somewhere below us in the dark.
Ethan talked for almost an hour.
It came out in pieces at first — halting, circular, the way things come out when someone has been carrying them and doesn't know how to set them down.
My husband didn't rush him.
I didn't either.
We just sat there while our son found the words.
Tyler, it turned out, had a YouTube channel.
Not a public one — or not exactly.
It was unlisted, shared only within a group of boys from school.
Ethan had been given the link in October, about six weeks after Tyler arrived.
He'd watched the videos at night, alone, with his headphones in.
"What kind of videos?" I asked.
Ethan looked at the table.
"Stuff about women.
About how they — how they let themselves go.
How men deserve better." He stopped.
"How a real woman takes care of herself for her husband."
The air on the balcony felt very still.
"How many boys were watching this?" my husband said.
"I don't know.
Maybe fifteen?
There was a group chat.
Tyler would post the links there."
"And the other boys — they thought this was normal?"
"They thought it was funny, mostly.
Or — I don't know.
They acted like it was just the truth.
Like Tyler was just saying what everyone already knew but wasn't allowed to say."
My husband leaned back.
"And what did you think?"
Ethan was quiet for a long moment.
"I thought — I thought some of it sounded right.
At the time." He looked up at me, then away again.
"I'm sorry, Mom.
I know that's — I know."
"Keep going," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected.
"There was one video — it was about being on holiday with your family.
About how embarrassing it is when your mom doesn't look a certain way in public.
Tyler had screenshots.
Of other people's moms.
And the comments were—" He stopped.
"Were what?" my husband said.
"Horrible," Ethan said quietly.
"They were really horrible.
And I laughed.
I didn't say anything.
I just laughed."
Nobody spoke for a moment.
A boat moved somewhere out on the water, its light crossing slowly from left to right.
"Why didn't you tell us about this channel?" my husband asked.
"Because I knew you'd make me leave the group.
And Tyler's the reason I got into the football team.
He put my name forward.
I didn't want to lose that."
"So you traded your mother's dignity for a spot on a football team."
Ethan flinched like he'd been sl@pped.
"Dad—"
"I'm not shouting at you.
I'm telling you what happened.
You need to hear it clearly."
Ethan nodded.
His jaw was tight.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"And I need you to answer me honestly." I waited until he looked at me.
"Do you actually believe those things?
About women?
About me?"
The question sat between us.
"No," he said.
And then, quieter: "I don't think I ever did.
I think I just — I wanted them to like me.
And it was easier to go along with it than to say it was wrong."
"That's still a choice," my husband said.
"I know."
"And today on the promenade — that was a choice too."
"I know." Ethan's voice cracked slightly on the second word.
"I know it was."
I reached across the table and put my hand over his.
He looked surprised — I think he'd expected me to be colder, more distant.
Maybe he'd earned that.
But he was still my son, and he was seventeen, and he had just told me the truth when he didn't have to.
"Thank you for telling us," I said.
He turned his hand over and held mine back.
My husband watched this.
He didn't say anything.
But something in his face shifted — some tension he'd been holding since the promenade — and he exhaled slowly and looked out at the dark water.
We sat there a while longer.
The boat light had crossed all the way to the horizon.
Then my husband said: "First thing tomorrow, that channel gets reported.
And you're going to be the one who does it."
Ethan nodded.
"And Tyler?"
My husband looked at him.
"That's a longer conversation.
But it starts when we get home."
Ethan nodded again.
He looked exhausted in the way people look when they've put something down that was heavier than they realized.
He said goodnight and went inside.
My husband and I stayed on the balcony.
He reached over and took my hand the same way he had in the hallway — quietly, without ceremony.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"I think so." I looked at the water.
"I want to know how long it's been going on.
The channel.
The group chat.
Whether there are other boys whose parents don't know."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I made some notes while he was talking," he said.
"I want to look at them tomorrow."
I turned to look at him.
"I took screenshots of the group chat name he mentioned," he said.
"And the channel description he remembered.
I want to find out exactly what these boys have been watching."
Something in the way he said it — careful, methodical, the same way he'd been on the promenade — made me feel both grateful and slightly uneasy.
"How much do you think we're going to find?" I said.
He didn't answer right away.
May you like
"Enough," he said finally.
"I think we're going to find enough."
