I opened my eyes.
“Yes. Today.”
Michael nodded, opened the folder, and laid out the documents.
Right then, we heard the stairs creak.
Ethan was coming down.
And he had no idea what was waiting for him.
Ethan walked in, yawning, hair messy, confidence intact. When he saw the table, he smirked.
“Looks like you finally learned how things should be,” he said, grabbing food without asking. “About time.”
I didn’t react. I simply placed a cup of coffee in front of the chair.
That’s when he noticed.
The tortilla slipped from his hand.
“What is he doing here?”
Michael sat still, calm but commanding.
“Sit down, Ethan.”
“I asked what he’s doing here.”
“And I told you to sit.”
No raised voice. No need.
Ethan looked at me, searching for weakness—for the version of me that would soften things. He didn’t find it.
“Mom.”
“Sit down.”
Something in my tone made him obey. He dropped into the chair.
“This is ridiculous.”
Michael slid the folder forward.
“What’s ridiculous is thinking you can hit your mother and then come down for breakfast like nothing happened.”
“I didn’t hit her,” Ethan snapped. “It was an argument.”
“You hit her.”
“It was just a shove.”
“You hit her.”
Ethan laughed bitterly, turning to me.
“So now you’re bringing him into this?”
“I called him because I realized I can’t handle this alone anymore.”
