Even through the dizziness, I saw my son’s terrified eyes lock onto mine. I gave him the smallest nod—barely a twitch.
It was enough.
Five-year-old Lucas darted toward the hallway table, his little hands shaking violently as he grabbed the phone. He dialed the number I’d whispered to him once—only once—like a secret spell meant to protect us. A number I prayed he’d never have to use.
“Grandpa… Dad is hurting Mommy!” His voice broke into a thin, frightened whisper.
On the other end came a sharp inhale, the rustle of movement, then my father’s voice—steady only because he forced it to be.
“Stay right there. I’m on my way.”
My husband, Brian, froze. His grip eased as Lucas’s words hung heavy in the air. His expression flickered—fear, anger, confusion all colliding behind his eyes. He hadn’t planned for this. He never planned for consequences.
He muttered something and began pacing, back and forth across the living room, like a man trying to outrun reality. I cradled my throbbing arm and forced myself to stay still. Running only made him worse.