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.*