My head spun with rage. Without thinking, I slapped him across the face, the sharp sound slicing through the air and silencing the room. Then, fueled by anger, I kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, clutching his belly, and started crying.
When I’d been shoved down the stairs, not one relative had moved to help me—not a single one.
But now?
Now they swarmed me like vultures, their outrage deafening.
“How could you do that? He’s just a child!” David's aunt said.
“Exactly! Did you have to hit the kid that hard? You’re heartless!” Linda, David's mom, added.
Cindy interjected, “You didn’t give birth to him, so you don’t care, huh? Look at what you’ve done to poor Ryan. Let me tell you—siblings or not, debts need to be settled. You’re going to pay for his medical expenses!”
The loudest voice, unsurprisingly, belonged to Cindy. Her face was twisted with anger, and she looked ready to rip me apart with her bare hands.
That was it. That was my breaking point.
They could insult me all they wanted. Judge me. Whisper behind my back. Throw their petty little remarks my way.
But harming my child? That was a line no one crossed.