He started crying. A loud, retching sob. Acting as if *he* were the victim.
My husband finally looked up, frowning.
"It's just some crumbs. He stayed up a little late. Do you have to scream like a banshee?"
My face drained of blood. My hands trembled.
"Did you hear what he just said to me?"
He waved a hand dismissively, his eyes drifting back to his screen.
"He's just a child. You're taking an angry kid's words seriously? How old is he, and how old are you? Stop being so dramatic."
"Look at yourself. What is the difference between you and a lunatic?"
Cole's voice could have flash-frozen steel. No comfort. No concern. Just undisguised disgust dripping from every syllable.
He snatched Jonathan's hand, yanking him away from me. "Come on. Daddy will get you cleaned up. We won't lower ourselves to this madwoman's level."
Not a single backward glance. The bathroom door clicked shut behind them.
The sofa cushion beneath me might as well have been concrete. My mind churned—a storm with no eye, no center, no escape. By the time the tremors in my hands finally stilled, half an hour had bled away into silence.
The apartment was tomb-quiet. No sounds from Jonathan's room. He must have cried himself to sleep.
But unease prickled along my spine like tiny needles. I couldn't rest. Not until I saw him.
The hinges whispered as I eased his door open.
Jonathan lay curled beneath his comforter, but the tear tracks on his cheeks glistened in the dim light. Every few seconds, a small, ragged sob escaped his lips—even in sleep.
Guilt clawed at my chest, sharp and relentless. I wanted to slap myself. *This is my son. The person I love most in this entire world.*
I tucked the blanket tighter around his small shoulders and straightened up. Tomorrow was his birthday. The Ultraman figure he'd been begging for sat on his desk; I positioned it front and center—the first thing he'd see when he opened his eyes.
I imagined the joy spreading across his face come morning.
My hand reached out, almost absently, to right the family portrait lying face-down on the desk.
I turned it over.
The smile died on my lips.
My face had been scribbled out with thick, black marker.
Bitterness surged up my throat, tasting like bile. *He's just a child,* I told myself. *Being naughty. A prank. That's all.*
As I set the frame down, my elbow caught the edge of his diary. It hit the floor with a dull thud.