His son’s back looked like a battlefield.
“Oh God,” Michael breathed.
Lauren stepped closer, misjudging his quiet.
“You’re overreacting,” she insisted. “He hurts himself. He wants attention. Since the housekeeper left, he’s been impossible.”
“You fired her,” Michael said, his tone flat.
“She undermined me,” Lauren snapped. “You told me to handle things while you were gone.”
Michael said nothing. He carried Noah into the bathroom and turned on cool water, soaking a soft cloth before pressing it lightly against the burns. Noah flinched — but he didn’t cry.
That silence broke Michael’s heart more than any scream could have.
“When did this start?” he asked gently.
“At first she just yelled,” Noah said, staring at the tiles. “She said my crying gave you headaches. Then… when I couldn’t stop… she used the iron.”
“How often?”
“Two or three times a week. More if she was mad. She says I cause problems.”
Michael inhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay steady. The burns were placed where no child could reach on his own. The evidence spoke clearly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice trembling despite himself.