Chapter 4

The next morning, I was sitting in the sterile, quiet office of a family law attorney named Ms. Davis. She was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and a calming presence. I explained the situation, my voice hoarse from lack of sleep. I told her about the ripped papers, Sophia's reaction, the children's words.

"She tore them up?" Ms. Davis said, a small, humorless smile on her face. "That's a classic move. It means nothing legally, of course. It just means she's scared and she's a bully. We'll file them with the court directly. She'll be served. There's nothing she can do to stop it."

Her confidence was a balm on my raw nerves. I felt a surge of strength. I wasn't just a stay-at-home dad with no income; I was a man taking control of his life. We went over the next steps, and I signed a new set of documents. When I left her office an hour later, the sun was bright, and the world seemed full of possibility.

I didn't want to go back to the house, not yet. On a whim, I drove to a small, independent coffee shop downtown that I used to frequent before I got married. I ordered a black coffee and sat at a small table by the window, watching the people walk by. The simple act of sitting alone, with no one to care for, no schedule to keep, felt like an unimaginable luxury. The coffee was hot and bitter, and it tasted like freedom. For twenty minutes, I wasn't a father or a husband. I was just Liam. It was the most peace I had felt in a decade.

But I knew I had to go back. I needed to pack a bag, to get my personal things. I steeled myself as I pulled into the driveway. The house was quiet. Sophia's car was gone, so she was at work. The kids were at school. It was the perfect time.

I walked straight upstairs to our bedroom. The moment I opened the door, my stomach dropped.

The room was a disaster. My clothes had been pulled from the closet and thrown all over the floor. The books from my nightstand were scattered, some with their pages torn. On my pillow, written in what looked like red nail polish, were the words: "LOSER DAD."

I stood in the doorway, my brief moment of peace shattered. I knew instantly who had done this. It wasn't just childish anger; it was malicious. It was a message.

I heard a noise from downstairs and tensed. I thought I was alone. I walked slowly out of the bedroom and looked down the stairs. Lucas and Mia were standing in the foyer. They weren't at school.

"What are you two doing here?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Mom let us stay home," Lucas said, a smug look on his face. "She said we were too upset because of you."

"Did you do this?" I asked, gesturing back toward my trashed room.

"You deserved it," Mia sneered, her arms crossed. "You made Mom cry."

"You're a bad father," Lucas added. "We hate you."

Their words were like a volley of stones. But something was different this time. Instead of pain, I felt a strange and terrible numbness creep over me. It was the cold, hard acceptance that the children I had raised, the little boy whose scraped knees I had bandaged, the little girl whose nightmares I had soothed, were gone. These were two strangers, filled with a venom they had learned from their mother and their uncle.

I turned my back on them and walked into the room to start packing. I ignored the mess, grabbing a duffel bag and stuffing it with the few things that were still mine. My old camera, a few photograph albums from before my marriage, my laptop.

"What are you doing?" Lucas demanded from the doorway.

I didn't answer. I just kept packing.

His frustration grew. "I'm talking to you! Stop ignoring me!"

He ran into the room and grabbed the duffel bag, trying to pull it from my hands. "You can't leave!"

"Lucas, let go," I said, my voice dangerously calm.

He didn't. He pulled harder, his face twisted in a rage that was a perfect imitation of his mother's. I tried to pull the bag back, and he lost his balance. He didn't fall. Instead, he lunged forward and shoved me, hard, in the chest.

I wasn't prepared for it. I stumbled backward, my feet tangling in the clothes strewn on the floor. My head slammed against the sharp corner of the wooden dresser. A blinding flash of white light exploded behind my eyes, followed by a wave of intense, sickening pain. I crumpled to the floor, the room spinning around me.

Through a dizzying haze, I heard Mia shriek. Then, another voice. Sophia's.

"What is going on in here? My God, Lucas, what happened?"

I tried to push myself up, but my arm wouldn't obey. I could feel something wet and warm trickling down the side of my face.

I looked up and saw Sophia standing in the doorway, her phone pressed to her ear. She was looking down at me, not with concern, but with accusation.

"He's crazy," she said into the phone, her voice shaking with what sounded like fear, but I knew was calculated performance. "He came back and started trashing the room, he's scaring the children. Lucas was just trying to defend himself."

The injustice of it was so immense, so overwhelming, that my body couldn't take it anymore. The spinning in my head intensified. The edges of my vision went dark. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Sophia's cold, triumphant face looking down at me.