“You and your mother can leave,” Thomas said. “Or you grow up and learn how to treat your family.”
Eleanor screamed. Ryan followed her out.
Thomas helped us load our things—then drove us not back to the house, but to a small apartment.
“My grandkids need a door that doesn’t move,” he said.
I gave birth there.
It was a boy.
Ryan texted once: “Guess you finally got it right.”
I blocked him.
The victory was never the boy.
It was walking away—and raising four children in a home where none of them would ever be told they were born wrong.
