The implication hung heavy in the air: I hadn't opened the yearbook.
Harrison's shoulders dropped, tension draining out of him in a long, audible exhale.
I pretended not to notice, turning to the empty living room. "Where's Blake?"
Normally, he'd be tucked into bed by now. But the house was silent. I couldn't find him anywhere.
Panic rising, I dialed his smartwatch. Only then did I discover the truth: he was still at Vera's apartment. He'd even used his allowance to buy her medicine.
His voice, shrill and accusatory, pierced through the speaker.
"It's all your fault, Mom! If it weren't for you, Auntie Vera wouldn't have hurt her back. She wouldn't be spending her birthday in pain."
"Blake—"
"Do you know how much it hurts her?" he interrupted, trembling with righteous indignation. "She can barely walk. She needs someone to take care of her. I'm not coming home. I want to stay here and be Auntie Vera's little hero."
Every word was a serrated blade dragging across my heart. I struggled to draw breath.
I gripped the phone tighter, forcing my voice steady. "Blake, doesn't your school have the parent-child sports day tomorrow? Come home tonight, and you can visit Auntie Vera after the event, okay?"
His refusal was immediate, cold and unyielding.
"No. I don't want anyone at school to know I have a bad mom."
The line went dead in my heart before the call even ended.
Seeing the color drain from my face, Harrison stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. His voice was smooth, practiced.
"It's fine, Sara. I'll go to the event with Blake tomorrow." He paused, eyes gleaming with a solution that served everyone but me. "It actually works out perfectly. While we're at the school, you can take Vera to the doctor to get her back checked."
Hearing his father's proposal, Blake's tone softened instantly.
"Mom, you haven't made that pickled fish stew in a long time. Can you make it tomorrow? Wait for Dad and me to come home to eat?"
Children are terrifyingly fickle. One second, you're the enemy; the next, you're simply the cook.
Blake was only in elementary school. I told myself his temperament was just a phase, that his heart wasn't truly malicious. He was just... impressionable.
My rigid expression softened. I couldn't help it. "Alright," I said, resigned. "Remember to bring your asthma inhaler tomorrow. Take care of yourself. If anything happens, call me immediately."
That night, sleep refused to claim me.
When I did drift off, I was trapped in a nightmare of relentless, pouring rain—the same deluge from the night my parents died. The water rose around me, cold and suffocating, unending.
I woke with a start several times, instinctively reaching across the mattress. The sheets beside me were cold.
Harrison wasn't there.
I remembered his excuse: I don't want to wake you up early, so I'll sleep in the study.
A flimsy lie. In the past, even when he had 5:00 AM shifts, he never left our bed. He used to cling to me until the last possible second.
I tried to silence the voice in my head, tried to tell myself I was paranoid, that Harrison wasn't sleeping separately just because Vera was back.
But the next morning, reality shattered my denial.
I called Vera repeatedly to coordinate the doctor's appointment. She didn't answer. Instead, a notification popped up on my phone.
Vera had posted a video to her Moments.
There they were—Harrison, Blake, and Vera—standing together on the school's athletic field. Matching smiles. Looking for all the world like a perfect, happy family.
The warmth I had tried to kindle turned to ice.
I thought I was taking Vera to the doctor?
I thought Harrison was taking Blake alone?
What was this?
My hand trembled. The ceramic bowl slipped from my fingers and shattered on the tiles.
A sharp pain shot through my foot. Blood gushed from a fresh cut where a shard had sliced the skin.
I moved to grab the first aid kit, but my wrist—injured previously by Blake—gave out. I couldn't even grip the counter to steady myself.
At that exact moment, the front door clicked open.
Harrison walked in, looking crisp and energized. I opened my mouth to ask for help, to tell him I was bleeding, but the words died in my throat.
Behind him stood Blake. And holding Blake's hand, looking radiant and very much not in need of a doctor, was Vera.
Blake looked up at her, his face glowing with adoration.
"Auntie Vera, I checked online," he announced, ignoring me completely. "For your back injury, you have to eat fish to heal faster. That's why I told Mom to make the pickled fish stew today. It should be ready for us right now."
