Brooklyn launched into her performance immediately—a sigh, a mask of weary martyrdom. "Tommy, stop it. We're just guests here. We can't keep bothering your Uncle Justin with every little thing."
Justin halted, torn between the bedroom where his dying son lay and the crying nephew in the living room. Seeing his hesitation, I offered a faint, hollow smile.
"Go ahead. Don't keep the child waiting."
Unexpectedly, his expression darkened.
"Enough," Justin barked. "Tommy's in elementary school now. He needs to learn independence."
The smug smile on Brooklyn's face faltered. Her eyes narrowed, shooting a venomous glare my way before she dissolved into practiced tears. She scooped up her son, turning toward her room with dramatic flair.
"You're right. Who told Tommy he has no father? Who told him to cling to someone else's family, making everyone hate him?" She sobbed loudly. "I'll pack our bags right now. We'll leave tonight..."
Annoyance flashed through Justin's eyes, quickly replaced by panic. "Nonsense! It's the middle of the night. Where would you go?"
He took a step toward her, then stopped, glancing back at me with guilt written all over his features.