My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

Now, as the miles disappeared beneath them, William felt all those old conversations pressing down on him. For months he had resisted the idea of Owen spending weekends with Sue. He had said the boy was too young. He had said Sue frightened him. He had pointed out that every visit ended with Owen quiet, clingy, and easily startled. Marsha had countered every objection with contempt. He was imagining things. He was pathologizing normal family dynamics. He thought everyone who raised their voice was a monster because of his own history. He did not understand discipline because no one had parented him long enough to teach it properly.

That last one had landed exactly as intended.

“Daddy,” Owen cried suddenly, louder now, urgent, and before William fully registered what was happening, the click of the rear seat belt came loose.

“Owen—”

The boy lunged forward between the seats, all skinny limbs and panic, reaching for William’s shoulder. “Please don’t make me go! Please, Daddy!”

William jerked the wheel in surprise. The car veered toward the line, then corrected. At the same moment Marsha whirled around and seized Owen’s wrist with shocking speed.

He screamed.

“Sit down,” she hissed.