My eight-year-old son was curled up on the living room floor, struggling to breathe after his twelve-year-old cousin had b/ea/t him hard enough to crack a rib. When I grabbed my phone to call 911, my mother snatched it out of my hand and told me not to destroy my nephew’s future

The fractured bone had knit back together, thick and strong. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was standing at the kitchen sink washing strawberries.

I looked out the large bay window into our sprawling, fenced in backyard. Toby was running at full speed across the green grass, chasing our golden retriever.

His laughter rang out clear and loud. He wasn’t limping or gasping for air anymore.

He was just a boy, safe and loved in his own kingdom. The suburban house I used to own, the one my parents had lived in, had been sold to a lovely young couple with a newborn baby.

The sale had finalized a month ago. My parents, faced with the reality of their finances, had been forced to downsize drastically.

They had moved into a tiny, rundown, two bedroom apartment on the other side of the state. Deandra and Cooper were dealing with the daily reality of probation officers and court fees.

I didn’t keep track of them closely anymore. I didn’t check their social media or ask extended family about them.

They were just distant, irrelevant noise. Derek walked out onto the back patio, carrying two mugs of fresh coffee.