Chapter 3

Back in our small, rented apartment, the silence was heavy and suffocating. Tom sat on his bed, his back to me, but I could see his small shoulders shaking. He was trying not to make a sound.

I went and sat next to him, putting my arm around him. He finally turned, and his face was streaked with tears, his eyes full of a pain that was far too old for a boy his age.

"It' s not fair, Mom," he whispered, his voice choked. "I worked so hard."

"I know, sweetie. I know." I held him tight, my own heart breaking for him.

He leaned against me, a rare moment of vulnerability for my tough, athletic son. "He doesn' t want me, does he?"

The question hung in the air, a terrible, simple truth. I couldn' t lie to him. I just held him tighter.

In my other life, this was the beginning of his end. The stolen scholarship was the first crack. The rumors Mark spread at school, that Tom was unstable and violent just like his "crazy" mother, widened that crack into a chasm. He lost his friends. He lost his love for the sport that had been his entire world. He fell into a depression so deep I couldn't reach him.

And one day, I came home to a silence even heavier than this one. The note he left was short. "I' m sorry, Mom. I' m just too tired."

I remembered Mark' s reaction when I called him, screaming, hysterical. He had been so calm. "These things happen, Sarah. He was always so sensitive." He didn't come. He sent a check to cover the funeral costs.

The memory was so vivid it made me gasp. I looked at my living, breathing son, and a fierce, protective rage burned away my tears. Not this time. I would die before I let that happen again.

Suddenly, we heard a crash from the living room, followed by a triumphant laugh. It was Kevin. Mark had dropped him off here, telling me he had to go back to the hospital and would deal with this "mess" later. He had forced this monster into our home.

Tom and I rushed into the living room.

Kevin was standing in the middle of the room, a smug look on his face. At his feet was a pile of smoldering, blackened fabric. He was holding a lighter.

It was Tom' s quilt. It wasn' t just a blanket. It was a hundred-family quilt, a tradition from my hometown. When a child was born, every woman in the family-aunts, grandmothers, cousins-would contribute a square of fabric from their own clothes, something they had worn and loved. It was a blanket of memories, of love. It was the one beautiful, meaningful thing we owned.

And Kevin had set it on fire. All that was left was a scorched, pathetic pile of scraps, a single corner with my mother' s blue floral pattern barely recognizable.

Tom let out a strangled cry. He lunged at Kevin, but I held him back.

"What did you do?" I screamed at the boy.

Kevin just shrugged. "It was old and dirty. I was cleaning up. You should thank me for being hygienic."

Just then, the door opened and Mark walked in. He saw the scene-the smoldering quilt, me holding back a furious Tom, and Kevin standing there with a lighter.

"What is going on now?" Mark demanded, his face a mask of exasperation.

"He burned my quilt!" Tom yelled, tears of rage and grief streaming down his face. "He burned Grandma' s quilt!"

Mark looked at the pile of burnt cloth on the floor. He glanced at Kevin, who put on a pitiful face.

"It was an accident, Dad," Kevin said, his voice trembling convincingly. "I found some matches and was just looking at them, and it fell. I' m so sorry."

Mark' s expression softened instantly. He went to Kevin and put a hand on his shoulder.

"It' s okay. Accidents happen. The important thing is that you didn' t get hurt." He then turned to me, his face hard again. "You shouldn' t leave matches where children can find them, Sarah."

He was blaming me. He was blaming me.

My son' s one treasured possession was destroyed, and he was blaming me. He didn' t even look at Tom' s devastated face.

That was it. The final thread of any lingering hope or sentiment snapped.

Tom couldn' t take it anymore. He wrenched himself out of my grasp and stood tall, facing the man who was supposed to be his father.

"I don' t want your apology," Tom said to Kevin, his voice shaking but clear. Then he looked straight at Mark. "And you. You' re not my father. I don' t have a father."

Mark' s face turned purple with rage. The insult from his own son, in front of his new surrogate son, was more than his fragile ego could handle.

"What did you say to me?" he snarled, taking a step toward Tom.

"I said you' re not my dad!" Tom shouted back, standing his ground.

Mark snapped. He raised his hand and swung.

It all happened in slow motion. The look of fury on Mark' s face, the flash of his hand moving through the air.

I didn' t think. I reacted. I threw myself in front of Tom.

The slap landed on my cheek, hard. The force of it sent me stumbling sideways. My head rang, and my cheek exploded with pain.

But I didn' t fall. I turned back, my body a shield between my son and his father.

"Don' t you dare touch him!" I shrieked, my voice a primal howl. I grabbed Mark' s arms, digging my nails into his expensive shirt, holding him back with a strength I didn' t know I possessed. "You will not touch my son!"

He struggled against me, his face contorted with a rage that was terrifying. But I held on, a cornered animal protecting her young. I would let him kill me before he laid another hand on Tom.