He was fourteen, tall for his age, with dark hair falling across his forehead and my eyes—except when he was afraid, when he looked painfully like someone else.
“Go upstairs,” I told him.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Noah.”
He hesitated, then moved only as far as the staircase.
The knocking grew frantic, desperate.
Rachel swayed on the porch, and my mother looked like she might collapse.
Against every instinct screaming inside me, I unlocked the door.
My father stumbled in first, older and smaller than I remembered, yet still carrying the presence of a man who had spent his life expecting obedience.
My mother followed, trembling.
Rachel stepped inside last.
The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes locked on Noah.
Noah looked back.
And something in the room shifted.
My father saw it too.
I watched the blood drain from his face.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Rachel let out a broken gasp.
“Oh my God.”
Noah turned to me.
“Mom… why is she looking at me like that?”
I couldn’t answer.
Not yet.
My father finally forced out words.
“We need to leave. Now. All of us.”
I laughed, sharp and empty.
