I hung up without another word. There was no “I hope it’s nothing serious.” No “my poor baby.” Those phrases had gotten stuck in my throat years ago. I grabbed my purse and car keys. My tall, slender silhouette moved quickly down the hallway of our Park Avenue townhouse, not pausing at the family portraits William insisted on hanging. Perfect frozen smiles.
The Manhattan traffic was dense, but I navigated it with the cold precision of someone used to making high-speed decisions. My mind, however, wasn’t on the road. It was on Ethan, eight years old. Eight years of a constant battle, of a dull and growing resistance to everything I represented—rules, boundaries, expectations. William was always the mediator, always with his “Let it go, Charlotte. He’s just a boy.” His. “Don’t be so hard on him.” His. “It’s like you don’t love him.” That last line, with its hint of false concern, was his favorite.
I parked in the reserved spot. The school building, sober and steeped in tradition, greeted me with its usual cloistered air. The secretary led me directly to the office of the headmaster, Mr. Davies. There, slouched in a chair, displaying an insolence too big even for his small frame, was Ethan. His lip was slightly swollen. The immaculate uniform from that morning now had a dirt stain on the knee. His eyes, the same deceptively clear green as William’s, looked me up and down without a hint of remorse or relief, only annoyance.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayes.”
Mr. Davies, a man in his fifties with a weary expression, stood up.
