Dylan flinched as he was terrified. His hands pressed hard against his thighs, fingers digging into his skin as if pain could keep him grounded.
This was not good news at all.
His father was never someone who changed his mind so easily, not after everything he had said to him. If he were back here, sitting silently at this table, then his mother had done something horrifying.
His chest tightened. He needed to speak. This time, he needed to be honest because his father was right in front of him, and he would defend him, because maybe this was his last chance.
"Mom, I—"
The words never made it out.
His father suddenly collapsed forward, his face plunging into the steaming stew. The bowl rattled against the table, liquid splashing over the surface, but his father made no sound or movement at all.
"Oh my," his mother said lightly, as if commenting on a small accident. "You need to be careful, darling. You stained your shirt."
