That night, I woke to the sound of running water. It was well past three in the morning.
The sound wasn’t steady. It came in uneven bursts — splashes, pauses, and something else. Soft sobs.
I crept out of bed, careful not to make a sound, and followed the faint glow from the bathroom door. Through the narrow crack, I saw a sight that stopped my breath.
Olivia stood trembling beneath the water, her arms and shoulders covered in bruises. Daniel stood beside her, silent, a wet towel clutched in his hand.
“You think I didn’t hear you talking earlier?” he hissed.
“No… it was just Mom. I asked if she wanted something to eat.”
“Liar!”
The slap was sharp, echoing against the tiles. Olivia fell, crying quietly as he turned away.
I covered my mouth to keep from crying out. My knees nearly gave way. My son — my gentle boy, the child I had once held and protected — had become the very man his father once was.
