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“They’re taking him to the station. He’s… he’s not going to be able to touch us anymore,” he said, his voice low.
Behind me, I could hear the distant sound of children’s laughter from the park across the street, a reminder that life kept moving, even when the world seemed to collapse around you.
After the Storm
The next few days were a blur of paperwork, police reports, and endless questions from the kids. I tried to keep my voice steady when I told them that their dad was in trouble, that he had made a mistake. I could see the confusion in Priya’s eyes, the way she clutched her stuffed rabbit tighter, as if it could protect her from the unknown.
At night, I would sit on the couch, the kids’ heads resting on my lap, and try to explain the concept of “karma” without sounding like a sermon. I told them stories of cause and effect, of how actions have consequences, but the words felt hollow. I was more concerned with the way the house felt empty, how the hallway echoed without Cole’s footsteps.
Mark showed up at our doorstep a few times, bringing groceries and a few cans of soup. He would sit at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a mug, and listen as I vented, as I cried, as I tried to make sense of the sudden, brutal shift in our lives.
“You did good, Jess,” he said one evening, after I’d broken down in front of the kids. “You’re holding it together for them. That’s more than most could do.”