Chapter 2

When Mom didn’t respond, Dad’s voice rose again, “I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?”

“Do you know how embarrassed I was when you slapped me in front of everyone?”

“Your son’s awful behavior comes straight from you! He’s nothing like Caroline’s daughter!”

He got up and started towards my room. “I’ll raise him myself from now on. I won’t let you turn him into a spoiled brat!”

Mom stepped in front of him, smirking sarcastically. “You remember Charlie is your son? You always call him ‘my son, my son,’ and I thought he was just mine. Fine then, let’s get a divorce.”

Dad scoffed at the papers in front of him. “You’ve got to be kidding. This marriage was something you begged for. Now you want to end it just like that?”

Mom sighed, exhaustion written all over her face. “Yes. You don’t love me or Charlie. Let’s stop torturing each other. Sign it, and you can be with your ‘one true love.’ What’s stopping you?”

Dad shoved her hand away, making her stumble.

“You’re crazy! You barged into her home, and Caroline was kind enough not to press charges. Otherwise, that would’ve been breaking and entering! Your son learned from you—no manners at all. I made him stand outside, and he acts like he’s dying.”

“And you indulge him, then come at me with this divorce nonsense. What’s in your head?”

Mom’s voice shook with rage. “What’s in mine? What’s in yours? Did you know Charlie is allergic to cherries?”

“The first time he ate one, he broke out in hives and couldn’t breathe. There was a cherry in that cake—why wouldn’t he spit it out?”

“I had to save my son—why wouldn’t I burst in? If Caroline hadn’t stopped me… maybe Charlie…”

Tears started streaming down Mom’s face again, and I wanted to hug her, to comfort her like she always did for me.

Dad just scoffed, even chuckling dryly. “Oh, please. A cherry? That’s nothing. An allergy? Next, you’ll tell me he’s allergic to air.”

“How would I not know if that happened before? You’re always using him as a way to control me. You think you wouldn’t have told me if that had happened? You’ve got quite an imagination.”

“Other kids aren’t allergic. Why is our son the fragile one? Today, I’m going to fix this.”

“All he does is cry and whine. Anyone would think he was dead already!”

With that, Dad went to the kitchen, grabbed the cherries he had brought home a few days ago, and headed for my room.

Mom watched him, shaking her head, and sat back down on the couch, silent.

Caroline loved cherries. Every time Dad came back from her place, he brought a bag of them “for us to share.”

They would sit until they rotted, and Mom would throw them out.

If Dad caught her, he would scold us for wasting a thoughtful gift.

Every time, Mom reminded him that I was allergic, but he never believed it.

Once, when Mom wasn’t home, Dad had ordered a cherry smoothie and tried to force me to drink it.

He muttered, “Your mother keeps saying you’re allergic to cherries. I don’t buy it. She’s just refusing Caroline’s goodwill.”

In desperation, I bit him, and he let me go, shoving me to the floor and kicking me a few times before leaving.

Cherry juice was everywhere—on the floor, on my clothes.