Helen barely heard the rest.
“Go get that money. Now!” Jason shouted.
And before she could move…
His hand struck her.
The sound echoed through the house. Her head snapped to the side, the sting immediate—but nothing compared to the pain inside. Her own son had hit her.
She said nothing.
After a long moment, she turned away.
“Take whatever you want,” she said in a hollow voice.
She walked to her room, knelt with difficulty, pulled out the tin, and returned. She placed it on the table beside the untouched food.
Jason grabbed it, counted the money, stuffed it into his pockets, and left with Ashley without a word.
When the car disappeared, the house fell into silence again—but now it was the silence of grief.
That night, Helen didn’t sleep. She sat on the edge of her bed, replaying every memory—his childhood laughter, his illnesses, his graduation. One question echoed in her mind: when did everything go wrong?
The next morning at nine, frantic knocking shook the door.
Slowly, she opened it.
Jason was on his knees, crying uncontrollably, his body trembling.
“Mom… please forgive me…” he sobbed.
Her eyes dropped to what he held: a crumpled brown envelope.
She froze.
“What is that?” she asked coldly.