“I do breakfast, school, homework, laundry, everything,” she said. “Then you walk in and play hero.”
The bottle rested between us like an object placed into evidence.
“Whatever problems we have are between you and me,” I said.
Caroline stepped in front of the mudroom door.
“You are not taking her to a hospital and making me look like a monster.”
Ella trembled against my chest.
“Move.”
Caroline’s jaw tightened.
“Walk out that door with her, Adam, and don’t bother coming back.”
For one ugly heartbeat, I imagined shouting until every picture frame in the hallway shook.
I imagined demanding answers while Ella listened.
I imagined saying something cruel enough to hurt Caroline the way her words had hurt our daughter.
Then I felt Ella’s fingers clutch the back of my jacket.
A child learns what safety means from the adult who stays steady while the room tries to explode.
