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.
Lucas wiped his tears and quietly crawled under the sofa, pulling out the phone I kept hidden there for emergencies. His little voice shook:
On the other end, there was a long, heavy silence.
Then Thomas—Mark’s father—spoke, voice firm but deeply concerned:
“Stay right there. I’m on my way.”
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.
Thomas entered.
Not angry. Not aggressive.
Just… steady. Serious. Silent in a way that made the entire room hold its breath.
He took in everything with one sweeping look:
the scattered papers, my red eyes, Lucas still holding onto me, and Mark frozen, unsure of what to say.
“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.
Thomas exhaled slowly.
“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.
