Chapter 2 - The Hallway at the End of the House
My aunt’s sneakers squeaked against the slick wooden floorboards of the hallway, a sharp, panicked sound that cut right through the hum of the backyard patio.
Dad took two long strides after her, but Grandma didn’t move an inch. She stood like an iron post between the patio table and the open glass door, holding my recording phone against her cardigan while our dog, Buster, stayed pressed to her calf, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Dad.
"David, stop right there," Grandma said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a heavy, unyielding weight that stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Mom, Aunt Sarah is going to hyperventilate over nothing!" Dad snapped, turning back, his face flushed red under the string lights strung across the deck. "The baby is fine! He’s literally sitting in the spare room with a tablet!"
"Then why did you have to hide him before the guests walked through the front door?" Aunt Clara, my dad's older sister, stepped forward from the party table. She set down her glass of iced tea with enough force that liquid sloshed over the rim. "David, I heard your voice on that phone. You told Brenda to put him in the back before anyone got here. Why?"
Brenda—Dad’s girlfriend—smoothed her tailored cream linen trousers, smoothing down a front crease that didn't exist. She tried to toss her head back with a cold, dismissive laugh, but her hand was shaking when she adjusted her gold hoop earring.
"Oh, come on, Clara. Don't be so dramatic," Brenda said, her tone dripping with fake patience. "The kid was throwing a massive temper tantrum because I wouldn't let him ruin the party setup. He was screaming, pulling decorations down—he was completely out of control! David and I just gave him a timeout so the rest of the family wouldn't walk into a chaotic nightmare."
"A timeout?" Grandma asked. She slowly turned her gaze toward the large iron dog kennel resting at the edge of the patio brick.
I was still sitting on the hard plastic tray inside, my scraped knee smarting against my torn pajama pants, my arm wrapped around my chest to hide the bruise on my ribs where Brenda had shoved me. The heavy wire latch was pulled back, but the gate was still resting against the frame.
Grandma walked over, knelt down on the flagstones despite her bad hips, and swung the iron gate all the way open.
"Get out, Leo," she said softly.
I scrambled out on my hands and knees. The rough patio stone scraped against my bare palms, but I didn't care. As soon as I was clear of the iron frame, Buster trotted over and shoved his wet nose directly into my neck, letting out a low, whirring whine. I squeezed his scruff, hiding my face against his fur so the rest of the relatives wouldn't see the tears finally slipping down my cheeks.
"Look at him!" Aunt Clara raised her voice, pointing a finger at Dad. "He’s nine years old, David! You had him locked in a dog crate while Brenda was out here sipping mimosas!"
"He climbed in there himself!" Brenda shot back, her voice raising an octave, dropping the smooth suburban act. "He was acting like a wild animal! Ask David! The boy lunged at me when I tried to touch his brother!"
"Because you were putting my brother in the crate first!" I yelled out, my voice cracking in the middle. I wiped my nose on my torn sleeve and stared right at Dad. "She grabbed Leo’s arm and tried to latch him inside so she could take a photo for her social media page! She called it 'Kennel Training the Brats'! I pulled him out, and then she shoved me!"
A collective gasp rippled through the eight relatives standing around the patio table. Uncle Mark dropped his fork. My cousin Maya covered her mouth.
Dad’s jaw worked silently. He looked at Brenda, then back at his mother. "Leo’s exaggerating. He always makes things sound ten times worse than they are because he doesn't like Brenda."
"I have the phone, David," Grandma said quietly. She held the black screen up between them. "And the microphone was running the entire time your dog was carrying it under the patio porch. Do you want me to hit play again? Do you want me to connect it to the Bluetooth speaker on your deck so the whole neighborhood can hear what you said to your son?"
Dad took a small step back, his mouth snapping shut.
Right then, the interior screen door rattled open.
Aunt Sarah emerged from the dark hallway carrying my two-year-old brother, Toby. His little face was blotchy and red from crying, his breath coming in ragged, hitching gasps. He had a faint, dark red smudge near his wrist where someone had held him too tight, and his little blue socks were missing.
The moment Toby saw me, he reached his tiny arms out, kicking his feet. "Leo! Leo!"
Aunt Sarah’s face was white as a sheet. She wasn't just mad; she looked terrified. She walked straight past Dad, ignoring him completely, and set Toby right into my arms. I sat down on the patio bench and pulled him onto my lap, holding his small head against my shoulder while he buried his nose in my neck.
"His room was locked from the outside," Aunt Sarah said, her voice shaking with quiet fury. She looked at Dad like she was seeing a total stranger. "You put a sliding bolt on the outside of the spare bedroom door, David?"
"It’s a child-proof safety latch!" Brenda interjected sharply, stepping between Sarah and David. "He wanders at night! It’s for his own protection!"
"He’s two years old!" Sarah snapped. "He was in the dark, sitting on a bare mattress with no lights on, sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath! There were no toys in there, Brenda! There wasn't even a blanket!"
Grandma took a deep, steady breath. She looked at my dad—her only son—and the disappointment in her eyes was worse than if she had started screaming.
"Sarah," Grandma said calmly, turning her back on Dad. "Take Leo and Toby into my car. Pack their shoes and their coats from the front hallway."
"Wait a minute!" Dad stepped forward, his voice rising in panic. "Mom, you can't just take my kids out of my house! This is my house! I have custody!"
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Grandma turned around very slowly. She looked down at the phone in her hand, then looked up into Dad’s eyes.
"You have five minutes to let Sarah get their clothes, David," Grandma said, her voice dropping into a register that meant business. "If you try to stop her, I am pressing play on this phone while I call Child Protective Services from your driveway. Decide right now how you want this afternoon to end."
