Todd looked down at the paper. It wasn’t a chore list.
She tapped the bold red text at the top of the page and said…
“This is a restraining order effective immediately, and the two officers waiting on the front porch are here to help you pack.”
Todd’s face drains of color. He reaches for the paper with trembling fingers, his eyes scanning it like it might vanish if he blinks too hard. “You’re kidding,” he says, though his voice lacks any conviction.
I take a slow sip of coffee. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Todd slams his hand on the table, rattling the plates and sending a fork clattering to the floor. “You can’t just kick me out!”
The woman—Ms. Halston—folds her hands neatly atop the folder. “Your father can and has. You’re nineteen, Mr. Parker. Legally an adult. Legally responsible for assault. This is your only warning shot.”
He stares at me, betrayal flashing in his eyes, as if I’m the one who raised a hand first. “You’re really doing this to your own son?”
I set the mug down gently. “I didn’t want to. But I’m not going to keep living in fear of my own child. This house used to be filled with laughter, not shouting. It used to be a home. Lately, it’s felt more like a war zone.”
“I was just mad,” Todd says, his voice breaking. “It wasn’t even that hard of a slap.”
Ms. Halston doesn’t even flinch. “A single act of domestic violence is enough. And this isn’t the first sign of aggression, is it?”
He looks at me again, eyes wild. “You told her everything?”
“I told her the truth,” I say. “About the holes in the walls. The screaming. The broken dishes. The way I stopped inviting anyone over because I didn’t know what version of you I’d get.”
Todd pushes away from the table, knocking his chair over. “This is unreal,” he mutters, pacing now, hands clenching and unclenching like he’s deciding whether to punch a wall or cry.
There’s a knock at the door. Three firm raps.
Ms. Halston doesn’t turn her head. “That will be the officers.”
Todd’s voice rises. “You called the cops on me?!”
“I asked for a civil escort,” I say, standing straighter. “They’re here to make sure you don’t throw another punch.”
For a moment, Todd just stands there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. Then something shifts. His anger drains out, replaced with something quieter, more dangerous—bitterness.
“You always did care more about control than your own son,” he spits.
“I care about my safety,” I reply. “And yours. That slap wasn’t control. It was a wake-up call. For both of us.”
The door opens. Two officers in dark uniforms step inside. One nods politely. “Mr. Todd Parker?”
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs his backpack from beside the stairs and trudges past them, his face stony. One of the officers follows. The other waits behind, offering me a glance—neutral but respectful.
Todd pauses at the threshold. “This isn’t over,” he mutters without looking back.
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s not. It’s the beginning.”
The door shuts. Silence settles again, heavier than before, but cleaner somehow.
Ms. Halston slides her folder into her briefcase. “You did the hard thing.”
“I don’t feel brave,” I admit.
“You don’t have to,” she says, standing. “Brave is doing it anyway.”
When she leaves, I’m alone with the feast no one ate.
The bacon’s gone cold. The waffles are soggy. I clear the table slowly, folding the lace cloth, wiping crumbs. It’s not until I’m rinsing the plates that the shaking starts. My hands tremble. My chest caves in.
He was my boy. My only son. And I just kicked him out.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the empty seat where he sat, where he smirked. Where he spat venom and entitlement, like I owed him the world for simply existing.
But beneath all the chaos, a question gnaws at me.
Where did I go wrong?
It’s not like I never loved him. I was at every school play. Every parent-teacher conference. I worked double shifts to afford his first guitar, stayed up late helping him study for his driving test. I tucked him in until he was ten, even when he started saying it was “lame.”
So how did that boy grow into someone who looks at me like an obstacle instead of a parent?
The phone buzzes. A message from my sister.
He’s with us. Safe. Shaken up. Needs time.
You did the right thing.
I stare at the screen until the words blur. I text back two words:
Thank you.
Then I pick up my jacket and walk out the front door. I don’t know where I’m going—maybe nowhere—but I need air, space. A long walk. My legs move before my thoughts can catch up.
Each step crunches against frost-tipped leaves, the cold biting at my cheeks. I wander to the park down the street, where he used to play on the monkey bars. I can still hear his laugh echoing between the trees, from years ago when things were simpler, cleaner. Before the resentment grew like mold in the corners of our lives.
I sit on a bench and watch a mother push her toddler on a swing. The little girl squeals with joy, and her mother laughs with her. I try to picture myself there again, years back, a younger version of me pushing a younger version of him.
And I wonder—did I miss the signs? Or was it always going to end this way?
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the last photo I have of us smiling together. Christmas, two years ago. He has braces and a goofy grin. I’ve got a Santa hat and tired eyes. We’re holding mugs of hot chocolate. You can’t tell we’d been arguing that morning. Or that three months later, he’d stop coming home after school.
I whisper into the wind, “Please find your way back.”
The first three nights are the hardest.
I listen for his footsteps out of habit. I reach for two mugs in the morning before remembering I’m alone. The silence is both punishment and relief.
By the fifth day, the air feels different. Like the house is finally exhaling. I scrub the walls, clean out the fridge, toss the broken video game controllers he left in anger. Each room starts to feel like mine again.
I leave his bedroom untouched.
I’m not trying to erase him. I’m just trying to remember who I am without the yelling.
Then, on the eighth morning, the doorbell rings.
I freeze. My first thought is him. My second is the police. But when I open the door, it’s my sister. And behind her—him.
He looks rough. Unshaven. Tired. But not angry.
He doesn’t step inside. Just stands on the porch, hands jammed in his hoodie pockets.
“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
We walk to the back porch. No feast today. No threats or attorneys. Just two people trying to find the ground between them.
“I’ve been mad at you for a long time,” he says, not looking at me. “But mostly… I think I’ve been mad at myself.”
I stay quiet, letting the words land where they need to.
“I felt like you gave up on me after Mom died. You got quieter. Sadder. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I started lashing out. I guess I thought if I yelled loud enough, you’d snap back.”
I blink hard. “I didn’t give up. I was just trying not to fall apart.”
“I know that now.”
We sit in silence, broken only by a dog barking two yards over.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” he says.
I look at him, really look at him. There’s no smirk. No coldness. Just a boy—my boy—wearing shame like a second skin.
“I forgive you,” I say.
He nods. “I’m staying with Aunt Lisa for now. I need to work on myself. Anger management. Counseling. She’s helping.”
I feel something shift inside my chest. A small loosening of the tight knot I’ve carried for months.
“You’re welcome to come by,” I say. “When you’re ready.”
He looks at me then. And for the first time in what feels like years, I see the boy who used to ask me to read one more bedtime story. Who used to cry over scraped knees and draw pictures of our family in crayon.
“Not yet,” he says. “But soon.”
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
He stands, hesitates, then surprises me. He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he whispers.
“Thanks for coming back,” I whisper back.
And just like that, he walks away—not out of anger, but out of hope.
I watch him go, heart heavy, but not broken.
Sometimes the hardest love is the one that lets go… until it’s safe to reach again.
