« I promise, » Angela said gravely. « I’ll be there when you wake up. »
That night, Caleb ate the cookie. He slipped into bed. And for the first time in his life, he let someone else guard the door.
Peace is a fragile balance. Six months later, the outside world tried to break down their walls.
Caleb’s mother had been placed in a long-term care facility. The neurological damage was irreversible; she would never be able to care for herself, let alone two children. His father, meanwhile, remained missing.
But the system looks for blood ties. A distant aunt — the father’s sister — came out of nowhere and asked for custody.
The social worker, a stiff woman named Mrs. Gentry, who viewed files as checklists rather than lives, delivered the news at Angela’s kitchen table.
« The priority is keeping them within the family, » said Ms. Gentry, tapping her pen on the file. « The aunt has a clean record. A stable income. The children should be with relatives. »
Angela was livid.
« He’s still on the run. If you send them to his sister, you’re sending them to him. He’ll find them. »
« That’s just speculation, » Ms. Gentry dismissed. « The aunt claims she hasn’t seen her brother in years. »
Caleb listened from the top of the stairs. The icy terror that had begun to melt in his chest returned with a vengeance, seizing his lungs. They were going to send Ellie away. They were going to send her back to the family that had broken them.
He got off. He didn’t run. He walked, heavily, with the determined steps of someone walking towards their sentence.
He entered the kitchen. He didn’t look at Angela. He looked at Mrs. Gentry.
« She’s lying, » said Caleb.
Ms. Gentry turned in surprise.
« Caleb, this is an adult conversation— »
« She’s lying, » Caleb repeated, louder. « The aunt. Aunt Janet. »
« Caleb, you need to go back to your room, » Ms. Gentry began.
« She was there, » said Caleb, his voice trembling, but the words forced out. « Last Christmas. She was at the mobile home. Dad… he was hitting Mom. He hit me because I spilled the sauce. »
Silence fell abruptly. The refrigerator hummed.
« And what did Aunt Janet do? » Angela’s voice vibrated with contained rage.
Caleb looked down.
« She laughed. She told Dad to stop ‘playing with his food.’ She drank a beer and turned up the TV so the neighbors wouldn’t hear Mom crying. »
Ms. Gentry stopped tapping her pen. Her face fell.
« Was she there? Did she witness any violence? »
« She watched, » Caleb said, lifting his head, tears streaming down his face. « If you send us there, she won’t protect Ellie. She’ll just turn on the TV. »
Angela stood up. She looked like a lioness about to tear someone apart. She pointed a trembling finger at the social worker.
« Write this down, » Angela hissed. « Write it down now. And if you suggest sending those children to that woman one more time, I’ll bring your entire department down with complaints and lawsuits. »
Ms. Gentry closed the file.
« I… I need to verify this statement. But if it’s true… the custody request will be denied. »
It took another year. A year of therapy, of nightmares that slowly transformed into ordinary dreams, of Caleb learning that a slamming door doesn’t necessarily mean that pain is coming.
The courtroom was immense, with the smell of waxed wood and old paper. Judge Malone sat, imposing in his black robe.
Caleb—eight years old now—sat next to Angela. He wore a crisp navy blue shirt and a clip-on tie. His hands were clasped in his lap, and this time… they weren’t trembling.
On the other side, the social worker held Ellie in her arms. She was three years old, with messy brown curls, and a smile that lit up the room. She was waving to Caleb.
Judge Malone adjusted his glasses, then consulted the thick file — a novel of tragedy and resistance.
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