I sighed quietly, already bracing myself. Ever since I had brought his son, Nathan, home to raise, these visits had become routine. My cousin loved inventing excuses to drop by—whether to exchange parenting tips or to let the two boys play together. He claimed it was for the kids' benefit, but I knew better.
I opened the door to see him standing there, as expected, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that seemed out of place in our modest neighborhood. In his hand were a few jars of wild honey, neatly sealed and tied with rustic strings.
Behind him stood a pale, scrawny boy with haunted eyes, bruises dotting his face and arms. My son, Rowan. He had been given that name by my cousin and every time I looked at him, I saw the weight of years of torment reflected in his gaze.
"Come in," I said simply, stepping aside.
My cousin strode in like he owned the place. Without a glance at me, he set the jars of honey on the kitchen counter before heading straight for Nathan, who was sitting cross-legged on the living room and playing with some action figures.
"Nathan, tomorrow's your birthday! What do you want for a gift? I will buy it for you," he said, crouching and ruffling the boy's hair