He yanked me toward Bella.
Her cloying perfume tightened around my throat like a rope. I thrashed, but his grip only got harder.
My asthma flared, even worse than before. It felt as if a thousand ants were biting my neck. I collapsed to the floor.
"Come on, Justin," Dad sneered. "Bella already said you're fine. Stop pretending."
But I wasn't pretending. I could barely breathe.
Before I blacked out, I saw my mother fight her way through them, scoop me into her arms, and run outside.
As she carried me, I glanced back toward the living room—where my father was bent over, fussing over Aunt Bella’s injuries.
A wave of hatred crashed over me.
He once swore he would love Mom and me for a lifetime—but forever turned out to be so short. He'd changed so fast.
During my hospital stay those days, Dad never came to see me once. Yet when Mom pushed my wheelchair outside for air, I saw him again—sitting vigil in the neighboring room, tenderly attending to Bella.
I knew Mom had seen him too; her eyes were wet. I wiped them for her and buried my head in her shoulder.
"Mom, divorce him. Let's get rid of him," I said.
She paused, then pinched my cheek. "Do you even know what divorce means?"