Chapter 2 - The Mother’s Mask Slips2
Patricia Parker appeared in the doorway a second later, her gray hair slightly disheveled from sleep, her housecoat tied loosely around her waist. She blinked against the dim light of the bedroom, her expression shifting instantly from sleepy annoyance to a mask of practiced, saccharine concern the moment she laid eyes on me kneeling by the bed.
“Oh, Ethan! You’re back early,” Patricia said, walking into the room with a slow, heavy gait, completely ignoring the terrifying scene unfolding in front of her. “We didn't hear you come in. You know how exhausting these past few days have been for all of us. Caring for a newborn is no joke, and your wife here has been utterly uncooperative from the very start.”
Courtney crowded into the doorway behind her, clutching a fresh can of soda and rolling her eyes. “Seriously, Ethan. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Can’t a family take a nap without you bursting in like a tornado?”
I slowly stood up, cradling Owen securely against my chest. The baby’s breathing was still shallow and rattling, a terrifying reminder of how close we had just come to losing both of them. I turned around to face my mother, and the sheer, boiling rage that surged through my veins felt hot enough to melt steel.
“Look at her, Mom,” I whispered, my voice shaking so violently I could barely form the words. I pointed down at Hannah, who lay motionless on the bed, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. “Look at my son. They’re dying. They haven't had water or food in days, have they?”
Patricia scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest with an air of supreme, untouchable martyrdom. “Don't be melodramatic, Ethan. We’ve been feeding her. Just because she refuses to eat the wholesome meals I prepared doesn't mean we starved her. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She wants attention, exactly like she’s always done. Some women just aren't cut out for motherhood. I told you that before you married her.”
“She’s severely dehydrated, Mom!” I yelled, the sound echoing off the bedroom walls and causing Courtney to flinch. “Look at her wrists! Look at these bruises!”
I reached down and gently lifted Hannah’s right arm, exposing the dark, ugly hand-shaped contusions wrapping around her delicate bone structure.
For a split second, the smug, superior look on Patricia’s face flickered. Her eyes darted to the bruises, and a flash of genuine panic crossed her features before she quickly smoothed her expression back into cold indifference.
“Well, she bruised easily,” Patricia dismissed smoothly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “She’s always been clumsy. Tripped over the rug in the hallway yesterday morning while she was refusing to feed the baby properly. I had to restrain her from dropping him, didn't I, Courtney?”
Courtney nodded eagerly, jumping on the cue without missing a beat. “Yeah, exactly! She was having some kind of post-partum hysterical episode, Ethan. She tried to walk out of the house barefoot with the baby in her underwear. Grandma and I had to hold her down to keep her from hurting herself and the child. We were just trying to protect them!”
The absolute, casual lie made my stomach turn over. I looked from my mother to my sister, realizing with sickening clarity that I had invited two monsters into my home under the guise of family support. They hadn't been protecting anyone; they had been punishing Hannah for daring to defy them, locking her upstairs while they lounged on the couch, treating her like an unwanted prisoner in her own house.
“Get out,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It was dead, flat, and absolute.
Patricia blinked, her eyebrows drawing together in offense. “Excuse me? After we stayed here and gave up our time to help you—?”
“I said, get out of this room right now,” I snarled, stepping toward them, my free arm shielding Owen against my chest. “Pack your bags, get your things, and get out of my house before I lose control and do something I’ll regret. Get out!”
Patricia’s jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with ice. “You’ll regret this attitude, Ethan. You’re letting a manipulative outsider turn you against your own blood. Come on, Courtney. Let the ungrateful boy deal with his own mess. We’re leaving.”
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They turned and stormed down the stairs, muttering insults about Hannah’s ingratitude the entire way. But as soon as their footsteps faded toward the front door, I looked down at Hannah’s pale face and realized we didn't have time to argue.
Owen let out another weak, pathetic squeak. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, dialed 911, and told the dispatcher our address while begging them to send an ambulance immediately.
