Every time Max's coldness cut me and I'd cry in secret, those two little ones would reach out with their chubby hands to wipe my tears away, their voices chiming together: "Mommy, you're our favorite person in the whole wide world! Daddy's second favorite. We'll be good. We won't make Daddy mad. We won't make Mommy sad."
And that last time—when I'd fought my way into that hellish school and finally found them, their bodies covered in wounds, barely clinging to life—even then, the moment they saw me, they'd used their last shred of strength to grab the hem of my clothes, their voices faint as dying embers: "Mommy, we're sorry... Please don't fight with Daddy because of us. We weren't good. We didn't listen. We shouldn't have made Aunt Gretchen unhappy. Don't blame Daddy..."
Those voices—so gentle, so heartbreakingly understanding—sliced at my heart like dull blades, over and over, until I could barely breathe. Hatred and anguish twisted together, threatening to tear me in two.