Monday, I sent Bear to camp. I sent him with a nice lunch, yummy snacks and a big bottle of water. At 5PM when I picked him up, he told me with big eyes that he hadn't eaten all day because he couldn't find his bag and he didn't know he could ask for help because the counselors punished all the kids if one kid did anything wrong and he didn't want to get anyone in trouble. I ripped some new assholes and let him eat his sandwich in the car.

Tuesday, I left for Davis to clean the old apartment because my husband had thought playing MechWarrior was more important than pissing off his wife.

After I fell off the table, getting the glow-in-the-dark stars off the ceiling that my husband can remove while standing flat-footed, I drove to the hospital, after screaming in agony as I shut the door to the rental.

While in the emergency room, I called my husband to tell him. Then my husband told me the saddest thing I've ever heard.

He told me that when he went to pick up Russell at only his second day of day camp that the counselors told him, Russell might have been molested by an 11 year old boy. Russell wouldn't talk to them because he was so mortified.

He told his dad though. And his dad, having no other choice other than particularly bad timing, told me.

The x-ray technician took me away from the phone and my husband.

I started bawling so hard in the emergency room while I waited for x-rays, that hospital personnel asked if I was okay and I simply replied, "No, I'm not."

So I'm all alone in Davis, with my stupid broken arm, hearing about my sweet darling smiling little boy who had his smile taken away and the x-rays come back that I did indeed break my arm and that no, I can't drive back home to see my darling boy because I have to see the orthopedist the next day.

I call Mike hysterically 17 times from various locations that evening. I can't get a room, due to the biggest volleyball tournament known to man, so my dear friends give me a mattress, some pillows and a small tv to keep me company in my now empty apartment.

I barely sleep between the pain in my arm and in my heart. I feel like a run over cowpie the next morning. Mike brings the kids around 3. I see Russell and I can feel his discomfort with himself.

I hug my baby and kiss her and then I walk to Russell and ask for a hug. He gives me one, carefully avoiding my arm and tells me how much he missed me. I bite my lip trying to stand strong for him because Mike told me that Russell nearly cried when he heard I broke my arm in the morning.

We leave the baby with my friends. Mike, Russ and I go talk privately. Russell doesn't want to talk, saying,"I told Mike what happened." I realize he thinks he's in trouble. I slow things down and explain that I just want to know what happened, so I can help him.

He tells me. Halfway through things, I ask him,"How did that make you feel?" He replied,"Bad." I tell him how much I love him and how brave I think he is for telling his parents and how he's my hero. I tell him that someone is probably doing horrible things to the boy who did that to him and that he might have helped other kids by stopping this boy.

He hugs me, relieved, and we talk quietly.

Mike watches him play outside with his old friends. I call CPS and make a report over the phone. They advise me to call the sheriff's as soon as I get back into town.

We drive home in separate cars because I don't want to endanger the kids with my one-armed driving. I think how ironic that is and weep uncontrollably all the way home. I call the sheriff's office and have someone out the next morning to take the report.

I know it's not my fault. It's simply not how I feel. What's worse, is that I know how he feels and I don't know what to do to make it better, so we talk in dribs and drabs, addressing our feelings. We hug each other. I pray for him and the little boy, who probably has some evil creature teaching him these things by example.

And I cry in the dark, huddled in the arms of my husband, knowing that I only feel like it's my fault and finding it a hollow comfort.