Chapter 69 – A Mother's Reactions (Part 2)
The third episode left me with mixed emotions. It wasn't like the second, which made me scream. This one made me think. Made me remember. Made me feel things I didn't know were still there.
From the start, the tone was different. The campers were no longer strangers to each other. They had adapted. They had tested each other. They had begun to know one another. And Cody… Cody moved with ease.
He wasn't the boy who hid behind jokes. He was the young man who made jokes to connect. To lead. To provoke.
And then, they said it.
Cody had been pulling pranks at camp.
Not dangerous. Nothing cruel. But enough for the host to decide to "punish" him.
The punishment: play music for everyone.
I was outraged.
"That's a punishment? That's a gift!" I said.
Matt laughed. I didn't.
Because I knew that for Cody, music wasn't just talent. It was refuge. It was expression. It was a way of saying what he didn't say with words.
And what followed was a scene that left me breathless.
Cody stood in front of everyone. He played.
No explanation. No embellishment. No asking permission.
He just played.
And what came from his hands… reached them.
All of them.
The campers. The host. The crew. Us.
It wasn't just a melody. It was a declaration. A way of saying "this is me" without saying "this is who I was."
And I… cried.
Not loudly. Deeply. With recognition.
Because I understood that Cody wasn't just playing. He was showing his soul.
After the punishment came the main challenge.
A competition of not sleeping.
The campers had to stay awake as long as possible, facing tests, distractions, and accumulated fatigue.
Cody held firm. Not just through physical endurance. Through will. Through strategy. Through desire.
And then, at the end of the challenge, it happened.
Cody and Gwen, the goth girl, were together. Exhausted. Sitting side by side, eyes half-closed, words already spent. They had endured. They had won. And in that moment, as they drifted into sleep, they kissed.
Matt shouted.
"I knew it! It was her! It was always her!" he said.
I stayed silent.
Because I had lost the bet.
I had bet on Lindsay. On Bridgette. On sweetness. On calm.
But Gwen… had something else.
She had intensity. She had mystery. She had that gaze that doesn't judge, but sees everything.
And Cody… chose her.
Not for spectacle. For connection.
And that… hurt me.
Not because I didn't like Gwen. Because I understood that my son no longer chose as I expected.
He chose as he felt.
And that… that made me happy.
Even if I don't say it.
Even if I don't show it.
Even if I still struggle to accept it.
After the episode, we received more messages.
"Your son is a heartthrob!"
"What a scene!"
"What a change!"
And I… just wanted to hug him.
Not to congratulate him.
To tell him I understand.
Because even if I never knew how to show it, Cody is the most important thing I have.
And now… he was shining.
And I… was seeing it.
At last.
---
The fourth episode made me smile more than I expected. Not because of the challenge. Because of what began to bloom between the lines, between the laughter, between the glances.
The game was physical. Dodgeball. Balls flying. Campers dodging. Controlled chaos. And Cody… there he was. In his element.
From the first minute, it was clear he had learned to use his body. Not just as a tool. As language. As presence. He moved with precision. With strategy. With that mix of strength and humor that made him stand out without imposing.
Matt and I watched him with pride. He for the technique. I for the expression.
Because Cody wasn't just playing. He was enjoying himself. And that… made me happy.
For years, I saw him hide behind screens, behind jokes, behind silences. And now, I saw him run, throw, dodge, laugh. As if he were finally living out loud.
But what caught my attention most wasn't the game.
It was her.
Lindsay.
The blonde. The sweet one. The one who seemed to live in her own world, but who suddenly began to orbit close to Cody.
At first, I thought it was coincidence. That they just happened to cross paths. But no. Lindsay sought him out. Looked at him. Talked to him. Smiled at him.
And Cody… responded.
Without nerves. With tenderness. With patience. With interest.
And I… was moved.
Because even though I had bet on Bridgette—the athlete, the serene one, the one who seemed grounded—something in Lindsay began to win me over.
Not by logic. By intuition.
Because Lindsay had that light that could touch Cody's heart. That spontaneity that could break down his defenses. That sweetness that could teach him that not everything has to be so serious, so deep, so thought out.
And Cody… seemed delighted.
Matt noticed.
"Do you think he likes her?" he asked.
"I think she makes him happy," I said.
And that… was enough for me.
Because more than winning the bet, I wanted Cody to find someone who made him smile effortlessly. Who looked at him without judgment. Who accepted him without conditions.
And Lindsay… did.
During the game, there was a moment that stayed with me.
Cody dodged a ball with a leap that looked straight out of a movie. He landed near Lindsay. She looked at him as if she had just seen a superhero. And he… blushed.
Not much. Just a little. But enough for me to notice.
And that… made me laugh.
Because that gesture, that small blush, reminded me of Cody as a child. The one who asked me for help to buy flowers. The one who rehearsed lines in front of the mirror. The one who feared not being enough.
And now… he was enough.
For himself. For her. For me.
After the game, there was a betrayal. A teammate threw a ball at his back. Made him lose. It was unfair. It was cruel. But Cody… didn't complain.
He stood up. Brushed himself off. Kept going.
And Lindsay… defended him.
"It wasn't fair," she said. "He was playing well."
And I… was moved.
Because it wasn't just attraction. It was care. It was loyalty. It was connection.
The episode ended with Cody in the background. Not from lack of protagonism. By choice.
He walked away. Observed. Thought.
And Lindsay… followed him.
Not like a shadow. Like company.
And I… saw it.
Not as a jealous mother. As a hopeful mother.
Because even if I never knew how to show it, Cody is the most important thing I have.
And if Lindsay can make him happy… then she also has a place in my heart.
For now, the bet still stands.
And I… am happy.
---
**The fifth episode was different from the very first minute.**
No shouting. No physical challenges. No chaos. Just a campfire, an improvised stage, and a clear instruction: show who they were.
A talent night.
And I… grew nervous.
Because I knew Cody wasn't going to do something superficial. Because when he expresses himself, he does it from deep inside. Yes, that… hurts. But it also heals.
Matt and I sat on the couch as if we were about to watch a confession. And it was. But not in the way we expected.
The first talents were varied. Some funny. Others strange. Some moving. But what impacted me most was what happened among the girls.
Heather, the one with the bad attitude, did something cruel to Gwen. I didn't understand everything that happened, but it was tense. Uncomfortable. Emotionally violent. Gwen stayed firm. But Cody… Cody went to her. He hugged her. He held her. He didn't say anything. He was just there.
And then, another girl threw up on him.
Matt shouted. I did too.
"What is going on in that place?!" I said.
But Cody… cleaned himself. Laughed. Kept going.
As if he already knew that life sometimes throws things at you that you can't avoid. And that the important thing isn't avoiding them, but how you get back up afterward.
And then, his turn came.
Cody stepped onto the stage. Not with arrogance. With calm. With respect. With intention.
He didn't say anything at first. Just placed the microphone. Took a deep breath. And they projected an image behind him.
It was him.
The original Cody.
Thin. In outdated clothes. With a nervous smile. With a hunched posture. With messy hair and that expression that seemed to ask permission to exist.
It was him. It was my son. It was the one I had known for years. The one I saw grow up without knowing how to get close to him.
And seeing him there, on screen, as a symbol of what he had left behind… hurt me.
Not because it embarrassed me. Because I understood that Cody had been alone. Had sought affection in the wrong places. Had tried to fit in without knowing how. Had waited for someone to see him. To listen to him. To understand him.
And I… hadn't known how.
But Cody didn't stay in the image. He didn't stay in the past.
He played music.
No explanation. No embellishment. No asking permission.
He just played.
And what came from his hands… reached them.
All of them.
The campers. The host. The crew. Us.
It wasn't just a melody. It was a scene. A declaration. A way of saying "this is who I was" without saying "this is who I am."
And I… cried.
Not loudly. Deeply. With recognition.
Because I understood that Cody wasn't just showing talent.
He was showing soul.
After he played, the others applauded. Some cried. Others looked at him with admiration.
And Lindsay… looked at him as if she had just discovered something new.
And I… was moved.
Because I saw in her eyes something more than attraction.
I saw tenderness.
I saw respect.
I saw connection.
And that… gave me hope.
Because even if I never knew how to show it, Cody is the most important thing I have.
And if Lindsay can see him that way… then she also has a place in my heart.
For now, the bet still stands.
And I… am happy.
And moved.
Because that episode wasn't just a display of talent.
It was a display of soul.
And I… saw it.
At last.
---
**The sixth episode was the hardest to watch.**
Not because of what was shown. Because of what I felt. Because of what I feared. Because of what I understood too late.
From the start, the challenge seemed extreme: survival in the forest. Something physical, yes, but also emotional. The campers had to orient themselves, build shelters, find food. Everything seemed designed to push them to the limit.
And Cody… was calm.
Too calm.
Matt noticed. I did too.
"He's in protector mode," Matt said.
"He's in adult mode," I thought.
Because Cody was no longer the boy who let himself be carried along. He was the one who cared. The one who thought. The one who anticipated.
And then, the roar.
The camera shook. The screams mixed. Chaos erupted.
A bear.
A damn bear.
It attacked Cody's group. It wasn't a scene edited for drama. It was real. Raw. Brutal.
And Cody… jumped in.
He didn't run. He didn't hide. He didn't freeze.
He threw himself in to save his teammates.
Matt shouted. I did too.
"What is he doing?! Why isn't he running?!" 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 fall.
The bear struck him.
Cody went down.
And I… broke.
Not because of the blow. Because of the silence that followed.
Because for a second, I thought we had lost him.
My body froze. My mind went blank. My heart stopped.
Matt paced the house like a caged animal. I sat on the floor. I couldn't breathe.
And then, the phone rang.
It was Cody.
His voice was tired. Worn. But firm.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're not fine. A bear attacked you!" I said.
"It's over. They checked me. I'm bandaged. I'm whole," Cody said.
"We're coming for you! You can't stay there!" Matt said.
"Dad, Mom… this is mine. I chose this. I'm living this. I don't want to be saved. I want to be respected," Cody said.
And that… broke me.
Because for the first time, our son didn't ask for help.
He asked for autonomy.
He asked for trust.
He asked us to see him as what he was: a young man who had learned to take care of himself. To decide. To face things.
But it wasn't a calm conversation. It was a fight. One of those fights that aren't shouted, but hurt more than any scream.
"You don't understand what we saw! Your father is shattered! I'm shattered! You can't stay there as if nothing happened!" I said.
"It wasn't like it looked! Yes, it was dangerous, but I'm fine! I'm alive! I'm whole! I'm here!" Cody said.
"I don't want you to be 'here' on a call! I want you home! I want to see you! I want to know you're safe!" I said.
"Safe doesn't mean locked away! Safe doesn't mean taking away what I'm building! Don't pull me out of this! Don't take away what is finally mine!" Cody said.
"You don't understand what it is to lose a child! You don't understand what it is to see your blood on a screen and not be able to do anything!" I said.
"And you don't understand what it is to live with fear of not being enough! Of not being seen! Of not being respected! This is giving me something I never had!" Cody said.
And I… cried.
Not loudly. Deeply. With recognition.
Because I understood that 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… still wanted to hold his hand.
But he… was already walking.
And then, something else.
"Gwen is with me. She's taking care of me. She's my girlfriend," Cody said.
Matt frowned. I did too.
"I don't like that girl," I said.
"But she makes him happy," Matt said.
And that was enough.
Not to calm the pain. But to understand that, even if it hurts us, Cody is growing. He's choosing. He's living.
That was the hardest episode.
Because it showed us we can't protect him from everything.
That we can't spare him pain.
That we can't decide for him.
But it also showed us that, despite everything, he's okay.
He's strong.
He's loved.
He's alive.
And that… that is enough.
For now.
---