The one we had created not for danger, but for moments when the atmosphere became too heavy for a child to bear—when he needed support beyond what I could give in that moment.
“Grandpa… Mom and Dad are fighting again…”
On the other end, there was a long, heavy silence.
Then Thomas—Mark’s father—spoke, voice firm but deeply concerned:
Mark overheard just enough to understand what had happened. His face drained of color. Not because he was in trouble—but because he knew exactly how disappointed his father would be.
Ten minutes later, a car screeched to a stop outside. The front door opened with a push.
Not angry. Not aggressive.
Just… steady. Serious. Silent in a way that made the entire room hold its breath.
“Mark,” Thomas said quietly, “what happened here?”
Thomas turned to me.
“Elena, are you alright?”
I nodded, though the exhaustion must have shown on my face. Lucas pressed closer to my side, hiding behind my arm.
“In this family,” he said, “we do not create an environment that frightens children—or their mother.”
There was no shouting.
No accusations.
Just truth.
