If you hit me again, I will not explain it away.
If you damage this house, I will not clean up the evidence before anyone sees it.”
Wyatt looked genuinely stunned.
Not because the words were complicated.
Because he believed I was finally capable of following through.
“You’d call the police on your own son?” he asked.
“If I am in danger, I will call for help.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
That was the first moment I saw fear in him that had nothing to do with Harrison.
He was afraid of me becoming unavailable to control.
The anger returned quickly.
He accused Harrison of poisoning me against him.
He accused me of choosing my ex-husband over my child.
He said I was dramatic.
Ungrateful.
Cruel.
He reminded me of every bad thing Harrison had ever done during our marriage, as if our divorce had somehow given Wyatt permission to make me afraid in my own kitchen.
Harrison did not defend himself against every accusation.
He simply said, “Whatever happened between your mother and me does not excuse what you did.”
Wyatt turned on him.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Then tell me what I’m missing.”
That stopped him for a second.
Harrison gestured toward me.
“Tell me what makes it acceptable for a grown man to hit his mother because she won’t finance his night out.”
Wyatt looked away.
For the first time, he had no story ready.
No girlfriend to blame.
No professor.
No employer.
No father in Denver.
No mother who supposedly provoked him.
Just one ugly fact sitting between the coffee and the untouched eggs.
He had wanted money.
I had said no.
He had hit me.
Eventually, Wyatt stood and walked upstairs.
He did not apologize.
That hurt more than I expected, though I had promised myself I would expect nothing from him that morning.
For almost an hour, we heard drawers opening, closet doors banging, and objects being dropped onto the floor.
Once, something struck a wall hard enough to make me jump.
Harrison moved toward the stairs.
I stopped him.
“Not yet.”
He looked at me.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I did not want another confrontation unless Wyatt created one.
More than that, I wanted to know I could endure the sound of his anger without running upstairs to fix it.
So we sat in the kitchen while breakfast went cold.
Harrison finally ate one forkful of chilaquiles.
“They’re still good,” he said.
I laughed unexpectedly.
It was a small laugh, shaky and exhausted, but it was the first sound that morning that did not belong to fear.
When Wyatt came back downstairs, he had two bags and a backpack.
