Chapter 3 - The Saturday Ethan Had Been Dreading
Dad didn’t take Ethan anywhere until he had called his attorney.
Not the police.
Not a judge.
His attorney.
That detail mattered later.
Dad and Mom already had a temporary parenting order while their divorce crawled through Franklin County Domestic Relations Court. Neither parent could simply rewrite the schedule because they were angry.
His attorney told him to document what he had personally observed, avoid a confrontation, and take Ethan for the parenting time already granted to him unless Mom physically prevented it.
Mom didn’t.
She stood in the foyer while Dad helped Ethan put on his sneakers.
Then she looked at me.
“You’re staying here.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“You live here.”
“I’m going with Ethan.”
Gary laughed from the kitchen.
“Running to Daddy now?”
Dad turned toward him, but I spoke first.
“No. I’m getting my brother out of here.”
Mom’s face changed again.
Not anger this time.
Fear.
I packed an overnight bag for Ethan and one for myself.
In his room, I noticed something strange.
His backpack was already packed.
Two shirts.
Pajamas.
His toothbrush.
The stuffed red fox he had slept with since kindergarten.
“You packed this?”
Ethan nodded.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the hallway before answering.
“Because it was Dad’s weekend.”
I stopped folding his jeans.
“You knew?”
“Dad always gets me after lunch.”
“But Mom said he canceled.”
Ethan shook his head.
“No. Mom said I was supposed to tell him I didn’t want to go.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“What?”
“She said if he came, I had to say I wanted to stay here.”
“Why would she tell you that?”
His chin started trembling again.
“Gary said I’d better.”
I sat beside him.
“What happens if you don’t?”
Ethan stared at the floor.
For a while, I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
Then he said, “He gets mad before Dad weekends.”
Before Dad weekends.
Not when Ethan spilled paint.
Not because of the broken glass.
Before Dad weekends.
I remembered the kitchen floor.
Green paint.
Crayons.
Water.
A mess any nine-year-old could make.
But maybe the mess hadn’t started the confrontation.
Maybe it had only happened during it.
“How many times?”
Ethan shrugged.
“Sometimes he just yells.”
“Sometimes?”
He nodded.
“Mom says he’s helping me calm down before Dad gets here.”
I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.
Mom had given us an explanation for months.
Ethan had anxiety.
Ethan hated transitions.
Ethan became impossible before visits.
We had all been treating his Saturday meltdowns like proof that Dad’s house upset him.
Now I had to consider something worse.
May you like
Maybe Ethan wasn’t terrified because Dad was coming.
Maybe he was terrified because of what happened before Dad arrived.
