Eric shoved the boy aside. “Get lost. Since when do kids meddle in a husband and wife’s business? Son of a murderer—bad seed.”
The words stopped me cold.
My nephew hit the floor. He didn’t even cry.
“Eric, you animal!”
My brother went to prison for protecting me. My nephew has suffered years of stigma and humiliation. He looks tough, but inside he’s painfully sensitive and insecure.
Now his own uncle was grinding salt into that wound.
I exploded, struggling up to slap Eric hard across the face.
He froze, then roared, “You shrew! How dare you hit me!”
In the struggle,
my son, Daniel Johnson, slammed his bowl down. “Enough already! Can we eat in peace?”
Only then did I really see it: the fraternal twins I’d risked my life to bring into the world sat calmly at the table eating, start to finish.
While their mother was being beaten by Eric, they didn’t flinch, didn’t even look over—much less step in.
My heart went ice-cold.
Eric seemed to realize he’d gone too far. He scrambled off me, guilt on his face, and reached to help me up.
I slapped his hand away.
My nephew rushed over, tears streaming, and helped me to my feet.
“Sophia…”
Eric looked like he regretted it, stepping toward me as if to speak.