Chapter 4 - The Breaking Point
Amy didn’t move immediately. She sat frozen on that cheap plastic stool, staring at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “Connor, we can’t,” she whispered, her voice laced with genuine panic. She looked instinctively toward the heavy wooden door leading to the backyard. “She’s going to be angry.”
Those five words. She’s going to be angry. They hit me harder than a freight train. They hurt me more than the betrayal of the money, more than the insults I had overheard by the fence. My own wife was terrified inside the home I had built for her. She was more afraid of my mother’s wrath than she was trusting of my protection. That was my fault. I had allowed this. I had been absent. I had trusted blindly. But not anymore.
“Let her be angry,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. I shifted Frederick in my arms, holding his small, burning body securely against my chest. I reached out my free hand and grabbed Amy’s trembling arm. “I don’t care about her anger, Amy. I care about you. I care about our son. And we are leaving this house right now.”
I pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. She stumbled slightly, exhausted and weak, but I caught her waist. “My shoes,” she muttered, looking down at her bare, dirty feet. “Forget the shoes. Let’s go.” I didn't bother turning off the stove. I didn't care if the pots boiled over. I didn't care if the whole kitchen burned to the ground.
I guided Amy toward the front door, moving swiftly and silently through the hallway. We bypassed the living room, which was filled with coats and purses belonging to my unwanted guests. When we reached the front door, I grabbed my car keys from the hook. I opened the door and ushered my wife out into the sweltering Nashville afternoon. The sudden bright sunlight made Amy squint, her arm coming up to shield her face.
I practically carried her down the driveway and down the block to where I had parked my car. I opened the passenger door. “Get in,” I instructed. She slid into the seat, pulling her knees up to her chest, trembling despite the summer heat. I strapped Frederick into his car seat in the back. He whimpered weakly, a sound that tore at my soul. His skin was dangerously flushed. I slammed the back door and climbed into the driver’s seat. I turned the engine on and blasted the air conditioning, pointing the vents toward the back to cool my son down.
May you like
Then, I hit the automatic locks. Click. We were secure. We were safe inside the steel box of my SUV. Amy slumped against the window, her eyes closing. She was safe, but the damage was done. I looked at the dashboard clock. It was 2:45 PM. My son’s first birthday. Instead of blowing out candles, he was battling a dangerous fever. Instead of wearing a beautiful blue dress, my wife was covered in grease and terrified.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I wasn't going to just drive away. I wasn't going to take my family to a hotel and let my mother enjoy the house she had stolen from us. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. I didn't call my mother. I didn't call Aunt Betsy or my cousin Mason. I dialed three numbers. 9... 1... 1.
