Then his voice returned.
Calm.
Controlled.
Dangerously calm.
“I’m coming.”
The call ended.
I didn’t sleep.
Instead, I cleaned.
I cooked.
I thought.
By four in the morning, bacon sizzled in a skillet.
Eggs sat warming in the oven.
Fresh biscuits cooled on the counter.
Coffee filled the kitchen with a rich aroma.
I pulled the embroidered tablecloth from the hall closet.
The expensive one.
The one reserved for holidays and special occasions.
I polished the silverware.
Set the plates.
Folded the napkins.
Everything looked perfect.
Because this was a special occasion.
Not a celebration.
A turning point.
Shortly before six, headlights swept across the front windows.
Richard arrived.
His hair was grayer now.
His shoulders broader.
His expression harder.
He stepped inside carrying a leather folder.
One look at my face told him everything.
His jaw clenched.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs.”
“Asleep?”
I nodded.
Richard set the folder on the table.
His eyes moved across the carefully arranged breakfast.
“You only do this when something important is happening.”
I swallowed.
“It ends today.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“Good.”
He opened the folder.
Inside were documents.
Legal papers.
Program brochures.
Protection order forms.
Resources I had been too afraid to consider before.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I closed my eyes.
I remembered Brandon at six years old.
At ten.
At fifteen.
Then I remembered the sound of that slap.
I opened my eyes.
“Yes.”
Richard nodded once.
“Then we do this properly.”
A few minutes later, we heard footsteps overhead.
The stairs creaked.
Brandon was awake.
And he had absolutely no idea what was waiting for him.
He walked into the kitchen yawning.
His hair was messy.
His confidence completely intact.
Then he saw the breakfast.
The tablecloth.
The spread.
A grin appeared.
“Well, look at that,” he said. “You finally figured it out.”
He reached for a biscuit.
Then his eyes landed on Richard.
The biscuit slipped from his fingers.
“What’s he doing here?”
Richard remained seated.
“Sit down, Brandon.”
“What?”
“Sit.”
Something in Richard’s tone made him obey.
Reluctantly.
Brandon dropped into a chair.
“This is ridiculous.”
Richard slid the folder toward him.
“No. What’s ridiculous is hitting your mother and thinking nothing changes.”
“I didn’t hit her.”
“You did.”
“It was an argument.”
“You hit her.”
“It was just a slap.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed.
“You hear yourself?”
Brandon turned toward me.
“So this is what we’re doing now?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Richard opened the folder.
“This is a temporary protection order.”
Brandon laughed.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Richard continued.
“This revokes access to your mother’s accounts.”
Another document.
“This removes you from the vehicle insurance policy.”
Another.
