Chapter 6
1167 Words
(Caroline’s POV)
I think about my cousin Aiden—strong, kind, protective Aiden who's been like a brother to me my whole life. Aunt Jasmine raised him alone after her divorce, worked long hours as a lawyer, put him through college, and never once complained about the sacrifice.
"You raised two kids on your own," I say. "Me and Aiden. And we both turned out okay."
"You turned out better than okay." She squeezes my hand. "You're strong, Caroline. Stronger than you think. And Charlie is lucky to have you as his mother."
Tears prick at my eyes again, but this time they're different. Not tears of betrayal and pain, but of gratitude, or relief, or maybe just exhaustion.
"I keep thinking about all the moments I missed," I whisper. "All the signs I should have seen. How long has this been going on? How many times did I smile at Hailey while she was lying to my face? How many times did I make dinner for Samuel while he was making eyes at Hailey across the aisle?"
"That's not on you." Aunt Jasmine's voice is sharp now. "You're not responsible for their choices. They're the ones who lied. They're the ones who betrayed you. Don't you dare take that guilt on yourself."
I know she's right. Logically, I know it. But the guilt is there anyway, sitting heavy in my chest like a stone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see Samuel's name on the screen, followed by a string of text messages.
Caroline, come home. We need to talk about this.
You're being irrational.
Think about what's best for Charlie.
If you don't come back, I'm cutting off your credit cards.
I stare at the messages, feeling a strange sense of detachment. This morning, threats like that would have scared me. Would have made me worry about money, about how I'd support myself and Charlie.
Now? Now I feel nothing but contempt.
"He's threatening to cut off my credit cards," I say, showing Aunt Jasmine the phone.
She reads the messages, and her jaw tightens. "Let him do whatever he wants. You don't need his money. You have a good job, and you have family who will help you. He can't control you, Caroline. Don't let him."
I delete the messages and turn off my phone. "I won't."
We finish our tea in comfortable silence. Eventually, Aunt Jasmine stands and starts rinsing out the mugs.
"You should try to get some sleep," she says. "It's late, and you've had a hell of a night."
"I don't think I can sleep." But even as I say it, exhaustion is pulling at me, making my bones feel heavy.
"Try anyway. Charlie's going to need you tomorrow, and you need to be rested."
She's right.
When my son wakes up in the morning and finds himself in an unfamiliar environment, he’s going to freak out. I need all the strength I can get to calm him down and give him enough assurance to adapt here.
I head upstairs to check on Charlie one more time. He's still sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. The world is so much harder for him than it is for other kids. Everything is louder, brighter, more overwhelming. But he fights through it every day with a courage that breaks my heart and makes me proud all at once.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and brush his dark hair back from his forehead. He has Samuel's hair, but everything else is mine—my eyes, my nose, my stubborn chin.
"That man is an i***t," I whisper to my sleeping son. "He doesn't deserve you. He never did."
Memories flood through me, unstoppable and vivid. Charlie at six months old, screaming inconsolably for hours because the sound of the vacuum cleaner hurt his ears. Me, exhausted and desperate, finally figuring out that if I held him and hummed softly, he'd calm down. Samuel, irritated that I was "coddling" him.
Charlie at eighteen months, lining up his toy blocks for the first time. Not stacking them like other toddlers, but arranging them in a perfect line by color. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. When he got it right—when all the blocks were in perfect rainbow order—he looked up at me and smiled. The first real smile I'd seen from him in weeks. I cried. Samuel said it was weird and creepy as f**k.
Charlie at two, getting his autism diagnosis. The doctor explaining what it meant, what we could expect, what kind of support he'd need. Me, determined to learn everything I could, to be the best mother possible for this amazing little boy. Samuel, silent and withdrawn, already pulling away.
Charlie at three, speaking his first full sentence. "Blue car goes here, Mama." Five words that meant everything. I called everyone I knew to tell them. Samuel barely looked up from his phone.
Charlie at four, having a meltdown in the grocery store because they were out of his favorite cereal. A woman giving me dirty looks, muttering about "bad parenting." Me, ignoring her, holding Charlie until he calmed down, whispering that it was okay, that we'd find something else. Samuel, nowhere to be found because he'd refused to come shopping with us.
Charlie at five—now—still struggling with so many things but learning, growing, making progress every single day. His favorite color is blue. He loves dinosaurs and cars and anything that spins. He doesn't like loud noises or scratchy fabrics or unexpected changes in routine. He's brilliant with numbers, can count to a hundred in three different languages, can solve puzzles that would stump most adults.
He's perfect. Different, yes. Challenging, sometimes. But perfect in every way that matters.
And Samuel called him defective.
No. He doesn’t deserve to be the father of my son.
I lean down and kiss Charlie's forehead. "I promise you," I whisper against his skin, "I will never let him hurt you again. I'll protect you with everything I have. You're my whole world, Charlie. My brave, beautiful boy."
He shifts in his sleep, reaching for his dinosaur, and I take that as my cue to leave him be.
I go to my old room across the hall and lie down on the bed without bothering to change clothes. The ceiling has those glow-in-the-dark stars that Aiden and I put up when I was thirteen. They're still there, faint and peeling, but still there.
I stare up at them and make myself a promise.
Samuel might’ve cheated me out of five years of my life. But he doesn't get another second of my time, another ounce of my energy, another piece of my heart.
I'm done.
And tomorrow—today, actually, since it's well past midnight now—I start over with my son towards a future that doesn’t include him.
- Writer
