Before he arrived, I packed Sarah’s medications, her charger, two folded sweaters, and the paperwork she always kept in the top drawer of the guest room nightstand.
I put everything by the front door.
I did not throw her things.
I did not scream.
I did not touch her again.
I simply removed the access I had given her.
When Michael walked in, Olivia was asleep against my chest.
Her face looked too small against the bruise-colored redness on her cheek.
Tyler sat at the kitchen table with a cup of water, staring at the wood grain.
Sarah rushed toward Michael the second he entered.
“She assaulted me,” she cried.
Michael looked at her cheek.
Then he looked at Olivia.
Then he looked at Tyler.
“Ty,” he said softly, “tell me the truth.”
Tyler began crying again.
This time, it sounded like guilt.
He told him.
Not perfectly.
Not with adult words.
