Looked at my mother.
And said one sentence.
“Pack your bags.”
At first, she laughed.
She thought I would back down.
She had spent my entire life teaching me to soften around her moods, excuse her cruelty, and call her control “love.”
“You’re kicking me out?” she said. “While your wife is clearly unstable?”
I looked at Sarah.
She stood shaking near the crib.
But for the first time, she wasn’t shrinking.
She was watching me with fragile hope.
And that hope hurt more than anything.
Because it meant she hadn’t been sure I’d choose her.
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re leaving.”
My mother exploded.
She called Sarah manipulative.
Ungrateful.
Weak.
Oliver woke up crying.
My mother instinctively reached for him.
Sarah recoiled.
That was enough.
“Do not touch him,” I said.
My mother stared at me like I was no longer her son.
“You’ll regret humiliating me for her.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
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