“Ethan!” he shouted.
Just my name.
Not my chair. Not my injury. Not what I couldn’t do.
Just me.
He ran toward me with his arms open, his face bright in a way that no longer belonged in that house.
Daniel caught him by the collar before he could reach me.
“Get back inside,” he snapped.
“No!” Noah twisted against his grip. “He can stay with me! I’ll give him my bed!”
Madison laughed. “Are you serious? He can’t even get upstairs, genius.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor!” Noah shot back. “He can have my room!”
Something split inside my chest then, but it didn’t fully break.
Because that was the first decent thing anyone had said since I arrived.
Daniel tightened his hold. “Enough. This is not up for debate.”
Noah looked at me with wide, furious, tear-filled eyes—the kind only children have when they know something is wrong long before they know how to explain why.
“Please,” he said again, softer now. “Please don’t make him go.”
Then the door slammed.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
It shut with the kind of force that makes something feel final.
The lock clicked.
And that was it.
I sat there in the rain staring at the same door that had opened for me my entire life.