His voice broke on the last word.
I wanted to tear the walls down with my bare hands.
Instead, I walked to him and crouched in front of him again. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
He looked at me as if I’d slapped him.
“I tried,” he whispered. “Mom said not to bother you. She said you were busy and you’d just yell.”
The room tilted.
I sat back on my heels, every ugly, convenient compromise of the last two years rising up like floodwater.
Claire had weaponized my schedule since the divorce. If I was ten minutes late to a handoff because of work, I was unreliable. If I pushed for more time with the kids, I was controlling. If I objected to Brent being around them, I was jealous. My attorneys had advised patience. Stability. Documentation. Judges liked restraint. Judges liked cooperation.
So I cooperated.
I sent money early. Paid for school supplies, clothes, piano lessons, doctor bills. I didn’t miss support payments. I upgraded Claire’s car when hers broke down with the kids inside. I swallowed insults during pickup. I told myself children needed peace more than conflict.
And somewhere in the middle of all that careful restraint, I had mistaken paying for my children’s lives with truly guarding them.
The paramedics lifted Ellie onto a stretcher.
“We’ve got a pulse,” one of them said. “She’s tachycardic and dehydrated. Fever’s high. We’re moving now.”
“I’m going with her,” I said.
A police officer stepped toward me. “Sir, we need a quick statement about the mother—”
“My daughter may be dying.”
He stopped.
Mrs. Carter spoke up softly. “I can stay with the boy until you come back.”
“No,” Noah said instantly, the first force I’d heard from him. “I’m going too.”
The medic glanced at me, then at him, then nodded once. “He can ride in front if police follow.”
I scooped Noah up before he could protest. He was all bones and tension. He didn’t hug me back, but he didn’t pull away either.
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