“Don’t apologize to me,” I said, turning my eyes toward the porch. “Apologize to Caleb.”
Mallory stood up slowly, walked over to the swing, and dropped to her knees in front of my son. She took Caleb’s scraped hand into hers, weeping softly, asking for forgiveness from a thirteen-year-old boy who was only now beginning to realize that the adults around him were human—and deeply flawed.
Behind me, I heard footsteps on the concrete. Mark was standing near the door, holding his car keys.
“Are we going home?” he asked quietly, his voice hollow.
I looked at him—the man who had stood silent while our son was thrown to the ground, the man who preferred quiet compliance over courage.
“The kids and I are staying here tonight,” I said plainly. “You can go home alone, Mark. We’ll talk about where we go from here on Monday.”
