It slams behind him, windows rattling.
Through the window we watch him storm down the driveway.
He’s barely able to walk in a straight line.
“Better be out of my house when I get back, you fucking faggot!”
???
His voice booms loud and clear across the yard.
He catches his foot on the edge of a wheelbarrow and kicks it hard.
Metal clangs as it tips over with a crash.
For a moment, I think he’s gonna throw something at my truck.
But he changes his mind.
We can still hear him a block away, muttering curses to himself.
Heat floods through my chest as the house falls into silence.
Every protective instinct in me wants to throttle that scum.
To shove him against the wall and make him suffer.
But I’m not that man.
And I never will be.
Defending Marco from a fist, or worse?
Without a doubt.
But chasing that fuckwit down the street for all the hurt he’s caused over the years?
My baby wouldn’t want that.
Adding more violence to a day that’s meant to be about healing?
No. I need to let karma take care of it.
The best revenge is knowing he’ll die alone in this shithole he calls a home.
Or on the side of the road somewhere.
No one will miss him.
I hold Marco and his mum in my arms.
Arms without inky monsters.
He’s shaking like a leaf.
Something in the way he and his mother cling to each other, hands clasped, voices trembling, tells me that they have endured far worse than this, many many times.
She tries her best to smooth the moment over.
