Angry red circles bloomed across Noah’s back. Some were fading into dull brown scars. Others were fresh, raw, still glistening. They weren’t scattered randomly. They were deliberate. Controlled. The iron’s metal surface was spotless — no wrinkles, no fabric fibers — as if it had never touched clothing at all.
When he finally spoke, his voice came from somewhere deep and unfamiliar.
“What are you doing?”
Lauren dropped the iron. It hit the tile with a metallic thud and tipped sideways. Her face shifted rapidly — shock, fear — then a strained smile.
“Michael, you’re home early. This isn’t what it looks like. Noah’s been… dramatic. Ever since—”
Noah ran to his father and wrapped his arms around his waist with desperate force. Michael knelt carefully, afraid even his embrace might cause pain.
“Buddy,” he whispered. “What happened?”
Noah didn’t answer at first. He pointed at the iron. Then at Lauren. His voice cracked.
“She says I’m not allowed to cry about Mom.”
The name — Hannah — hit Michael like a blow to the chest. The rainy highway. The screech of tires. The flashing lights. Grief that still crept in during sleepless nights.
He gently lifted Noah’s shirt higher.