Part VII: The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Susan McCorkindale
4 min readOct 1, 2023
Photo by Ümit Bulut on Unsplash

“Let’s launch a podcast,” I say, sipping my coffee and staring longingly at the little “Podcast” link on my Substack dashboard.

“No,” my son replies, leaning down to give the top of my head a kiss good morning.

“Why not?” I ask, surprised. This is the kid who loves attention. I figured he’d be all in.

“Because I don’t want to get into trouble,” he says.

“You’re not going to get into trouble. We’ll just talk about what it’s like in here, day after day. Taking pictures of the cats. Texting them to your brother. Watching SpongeBob and Rugrats reruns until it feels like my brain’s going to bleed out through my ear,” I reply.

He shakes his head. No.

“C’mon,” I say, getting up to get more coffee. “It’s not like we’re going to bash the prosecutor or anything–”

“See? See?” he explodes, trailing me to the kitchen. “You went right for it! I know you. That’s what you’ll do and they’ll come for me. No. No podcast!”

“I would never bash the prosecutor,” I reply, indignant. “I might beg him to speed things up a bit, before what’s left of my mind flies out the window and takes what’s left of my waistline with it, but bash him? No. I wouldn’t do that. Although, frankly, I should be able to say whatever I like because, well, free speech and all. Unless we really have become a police state. Did you read about that? Some righty or lefty or I don’t know who said America’s becoming a police state. Do you think that’s true?”

“I’m going back to bed,” he says, walking away.

“But you’re always in bed!” I cry.

“I can’t do anything else,” he replies.

“So let’s launch a podcast!” I say excitedly, to his back, following him into his room. “Then you’ll have something to do! It’ll be fun! So what you can’t go out. We’ll bring the party to us. There are so many people who’d love to hear from you. Just look at the number of subscribers I’m picking up every day! People are following your story. They’re praying for you!”

“Please mom,” he replies, flopping onto his bed, “don’t make this about your platform.”

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