Jadł powoli.
Ostrożnie.
Prawie jakby ktoś mógł mu powiedzieć, że wziął za dużo.
Kiedy położyłam mu na talerzu kolejną truskawkę, podniósł wzrok.
„Czy mogę to mieć?”
Moje serce prawie pękło.
“They’re yours.”
“All of them?”
“If you want them.”
He hesitated before eating one.
That tiny pause hurt more than any insult Alana or Ellie had thrown at me.
I had left my son in this house believing he was safe.
And somehow, he had learned to ask permission for fruit.
Then tires crunched across the gravel driveway.
Ellie stood immediately.
“Finally.”
Parker came through the front door so fast he forgot to close it.
His face was pale.
He looked at me.
Then his mother.
Then his sister.
“Where’s Dustin?”
“Upstairs.”
“Is he okay?”
“Physically?”
Parker flinched.
Good.
He needed to understand that distinction.
He started toward the stairs.
Alana stepped in front of him.
“Parker, sweetheart, before she fills your head with—”
“Move.”
Alana stopped.
I had known Parker for years.
I had heard him annoyed.
Angry.
Frustrated.
But I had never heard that voice before.
Low.
Controlled.
Final.
His mother stepped aside.
Parker went upstairs.
For nearly fifteen minutes, nobody downstairs spoke.
Then I heard Dustin begin crying.
Quietly.
That made it worse.
It was the kind of crying a child learns when they’re afraid of being noticed.
When Parker came downstairs again, his eyes were red.
He walked to the dining table and picked up the plastic plate Dustin had used earlier.
The food was gone.
But faint marks remained where someone had cut a cold potato into pieces.
Parker stared at the plate.
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