I stayed on the floor longer than I should have.
People stared. Some whispered. Some pretended I wasn’t there.
Ryle knelt beside me, tugging my sleeve with shaking hands. His eyes were full of fear. I forced myself up, every movement burning, and pulled him into my arms again.
Then I went back to the line.
Step by step.
When it was my turn, I signed the discharge papers without speaking. My hands shook so badly my name didn’t even look like mine.
…
We went home.
The house felt dead. No sound. No warmth. Just cold walls and air that smelled empty. Ryle took off his shoes carefully, like he was afraid to make noise. Then he suddenly stopped and grabbed my hand hard. Too hard.
“Mom,” he whispered, not looking up. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
My heart dropped.
“What do you mean?”
He swallowed. His eyes were wet but he didn’t cry.
“When you show up, Dad gets angry. Then people get hurt. I don’t want them to hit you again. I can stay. I’m used to it.”
I broke.
I pulled him close, crying into his hair, holding him so tight my chest hurt. “I’m sorry,” I kept whispering. “I’m so sorry.”
He was eight. Fear raised him faster than love ever could.
Then my phone rang.
My parents.