He jumped.
I slammed the brakes. Tires screamed behind me. Cars swerved.
By the time I ran out of the car, Max was sitting in the middle lane of I-95, rocking back and forth, screaming, hands clamped over his ears.
The highway stopped.
Not to help.
To watch.
Drivers leaned out of windows. Phones came out. Some people were yelling.
“Control your kid!”
“Get him off the road!”
“Someone’s filming this, right?”
My son was completely overwhelmed. The noise, the horns, the voices — all of it crashing into his senses at once.
I tried to approach him.
Every step made it worse.
“Max, baby, it’s Mommy. It’s okay.”
He didn’t recognize me in that moment. When a meltdown reaches that level, the world becomes pure chaos. Even a familiar voice can feel like another attack.
I was crying. Begging people to stop filming.
Most of them didn’t.
