Victor leaned forward, eyes locked on Darren. “You’re gonna pack your things. You’re gonna leave this house. And if you ever, ever raise your hand to her again, the next person sitting at this table won’t be me. It’ll be…the police.

Victor’s voice doesn’t rise, but the weight behind it is thunder. Darren’s hands grip the edge of the table as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths. His eyes flick from Victor to me, then back again, like he’s searching for a crack in the wall he’s suddenly found himself trapped behind.

“You can’t do this,” Darren mutters, but the confidence is gone from his voice. He sounds small. Younger than his twenty-two years. “This is my house too.”

“No,” Victor says firmly, shaking his head. “This was your mother’s house. The mortgage? Paid off by her. The bills? Covered by her pension. You have contributed nothing but fear.”

“I—I’ve been looking for work—” Darren tries, but even as he says it, the lie crumbles under its own weight. He knows we both know better.

Victor leans back in the chair, one arm draped over the backrest, calm like a panther just before it pounces. “You’ve been living like a king on her dime, Darren. Taking her cards. Wiping out her savings. And now you put your hands on her?” He shakes his head. “You’re lucky I came here first and not with a badge.”

Darren stands suddenly, the chair scraping back across the floor. “You think you can just come back after all these years and act like you’re the boss? Where the hell were you when I needed you? When Mom was working two jobs and I had no one?”

It’s a blow meant to hurt, and for a second, Victor flinches. Just barely. But he recovers quickly.

“I wasn’t there,” he says. “And that’s on me. I left your mother. I left you. I regret it every day.” He glances at me briefly, his eyes softening. “But I didn’t come back to apologize. I came back to protect her. Because someone needed to.”

Darren’s jaw clenches, his fists shaking at his sides. “You don’t get to play hero.”

“And you don’t get to play victim,” Victor snaps, his voice finally rising. “You beat on your mother. You drained her dry. And now you want pity? You should be ashamed.”

“I didn’t mean to hit her,” Darren says, quieter now. “It just happened.”

“It didn’t just happen,” I say finally, my voice steady. Darren turns toward me, startled that I’ve spoken. “It started when you realized I wouldn’t fight back. It started when you saw how tired I was and knew you could get away with it. You didn’t lose control—you gave in to it.”

He looks at me like I’ve slapped him. But I don’t look away. I won’t.

Victor stands slowly, gathering the papers back into the folder. “You’ve got one hour. Pack what you need. After that, you’re out.”

“And if I don’t go?” Darren challenges, but the bravado is shaky now.

Victor’s expression doesn’t change. “Then I call the police and show them everything in that folder. Every dollar stolen. Every forged document. You’ll be lucky to get probation.”

Silence swells between us.

Darren looks at me again, as if hoping I’ll rescue him somehow. That I’ll fold like I used to. But I don’t move. I just hold his gaze until he finally looks down.

He turns and storms up the stairs, his feet pounding like angry thunder.

Victor sighs and sinks back into the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. I sit too, suddenly aware of how much my legs are trembling.

“I didn’t know if you’d want me here,” he says after a moment. “But when you called last night…”

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I admit. “I just… I didn’t want to be alone in this anymore.”

“You’re not,” he says. “Not now.”

For a long time, we just sit there. The food grows cold on the plates, the coffee steams gently between us. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. Not when the worst has already happened. Not when there’s still something left to rebuild.

Upstairs, drawers open and slam shut. A suitcase zips.

Victor doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Then, after a while, Darren comes down again. He’s got a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a scowl that he wears like armor.

He stops at the door, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Where are you going?” I ask, not unkindly.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Probably Travis’ place.”

Victor hands him an envelope. “It’s bus money. That’s it. No more cards. No more accounts in your mother’s name. And if you try anything—anything—again, you’ll see what real consequences look like.”

Darren takes the envelope, his fingers tight around it.

He opens the door. But just before he leaves, he pauses.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say goodbye.

But I hear him mutter, almost too low to catch: “Sorry, Mom.”

Then the door shuts behind him.

I exhale, and suddenly I’m aware of how tense my body has been. I sink deeper into my chair, my spine aching with release.

Victor walks to the window and pulls back the curtain. We watch Darren walk down the driveway, his steps slow and uncertain. He doesn’t look back.

“Do you think he meant it?” I ask softly.

Victor doesn’t answer right away. “I think he’s scared. And I think maybe—just maybe—that’s a start.”

The quiet that follows is different than the silence from before. This one is calmer. Kinder.

I get up and start clearing the plates. Victor stands too, helping without being asked. We move in an old rhythm we’d long forgotten.

“Why did you really come back?” I ask as he dries a plate.

He glances at me. “Because I heard your voice last night, and I could tell you were breaking. And I’ve done enough breaking in this life, Grace. I don’t want to be the kind of man who lets it happen again.”

My hands freeze on a biscuit tin.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly. “Not forgiveness. Not a second chance. I just… I wanted to be here when you needed someone.”

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Outside, the sky is turning a pale gold, the day beginning. A new day. One that’s mine again.

Victor pours two fresh cups of coffee. He hands me one and clinks his against it gently.

“To better mornings,” he says.

I smile, genuinely now. The kind that reaches all the way to the places in me that have long been numb.

“To better mornings,” I echo.

We sit at the table once more, the lace cloth still in place, the silverware gleaming in the light. And this time, I eat. I drink. I breathe.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel safe in my own home.