Mallory stared at the figures on the screen, the dates, the transfer notes. The color completely drained from her face.
“He told me… he said he got a bonus at work,” she whispered, tears fresh in her eyes. “He swore he was taking care of us.”
“He was taking credit for my silence,” I replied. “I paid it because I loved you, Mallory. But every dollar I transferred made him bolder. It made him think he was the man of this family while he dragged my son into the dirt.”
Mallory covered her face again, but this time, her grief was stripped of excuses. “I’m so sorry, Laurel. God, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” I said, turning
my eyes toward the porch. “Apologize to Caleb.”
Mallory stood up slowly, walked over to the swing, and dropped to her knees in front of my son. She took Caleb’s scraped hand into hers, weeping softly, asking for forgiveness from a thirteen-year-old boy who was only now beginning to realize that the adults around him were human—and deeply flawed.
Behind me, I heard footsteps on the concrete. Mark was standing near the door, holding his car keys.
“Are we going home?” he asked quietly, his voice hollow.
I looked at him—the man who had stood silent while our son was thrown to the ground, the man who preferred quiet compliance over courage.
“The kids and I are staying here tonight,” I said plainly. “You can go home alone, Mark. We’ll talk about where we go from here on Monday.”
He stared at me, opening his mouth to protest, but the
