But I didn’t.
I walked over quietly, knelt down, and gathered Ethan into my arms.
His face was flushed and soaked with tears, his small hands gripping my shirt.
“It’s okay,” I murmured. “I’m here.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
I said nothing.
I wiped Ethan’s tears with my sleeve, brushed the grass from his hair, and carried him to the car. No shouting. No threats. Only silence.
As I drove away, Ethan asked softly, “Mom… why do they hate me?”
I swallowed hard. “They don’t get to define your worth.”
That night, I placed a call I had put off for years to my late grandfather’s attorney.
“Ms. Parker?” the lawyer said. “I assume you’ve heard.”
I gazed out my apartment window, coffee untouched, heartbeat steady. “Yes. Are they cooperating?”
