And dumped everything into the trash.
Noah didn’t scream.
He didn’t move.
He just stood there… trembling, crying silently.
My son came home early that day.
I looked at him, waiting—for once—for him to stand up for his child.
At first, he said nothing.
Then quietly:
“Wait here.”
And he walked inside.
A minute later, he came back holding a small wooden box.
Carefully.
Rebecca barely glanced at it—then suddenly froze.
Her face went pale.
“No… where did you find that?”
My son didn’t answer her.
He looked at Noah.
“It’s something she cares about deeply,” he said calmly. “Just like you care about your bunnies.”
