When you hang up, the rain feels colder. Not because the weather changed, but because your brain did.
You’re standing there, alone, while your son is behind a locked door, and every second feels like a betrayal.
You do the only thing you can do without ruining everything: you watch.
You watch the porch. You watch the dark windows. You watch for movement in the curtains, for a silhouette, for the smallest sign that someone is making plans.
And you remember the barefoot girl’s face, the way she whispered, Don’t say I told you. That’s not how kids talk when they’re just telling stories. That’s how kids talk when they live with consequences.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
