By the end of the month, the façade was gone. My father’s contracting license was under review by the state board. My mother was quietly removed from every committee. Even their pastor called — not to console them, but to pray for their repentance.
Their kingdom of reputation crumbled overnight.
Meanwhile, I focused on Ethan.
He had nightmares. He’d wake up crying, “Don’t leave me! I’ll be good! I promise!”
He refused to get in a car for three weeks. He stopped drawing, stopped smiling. His therapist — a gentle woman named Dr. Lang — said he was showing signs of acute trauma, terrified that any mistake would get him abandoned again.
Every time he cried, my heart cracked open all over again.
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