Conversations with Uta these days are more like investigations. Out of the blue he'll say something like what he said tonight. 'Adriana told on me today.' And before I can inquire further, even utter a simple 'why', the door on the topic is slammed shut. No matter how I phrase my questions, to everything he replies, 'I don't know'. Immediately I'm desperate to squeeze the whole story out of him. I ask point blank, but he says, I don't know. I shimmy and side step, he answers, I don't know. I sweet talk and plead, threaten and bribe, but to everything he says, I don't know. Without a doubt whatever transpired between Uta and Adriana was next to nothing, but being left in the dark, pondering this inane fragment from his day, in unbearable. I cling to his words like a life line, my last link to this little stranger called my son. And hasn't the 'not knowing' only just begun? If I'm already exhibiting this level of crazy dealing with the secret life of a first grader how will I ever survive being the mother of a teenager?
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