Chapter 3: Confrontations at Dawn

03

Who could have imagined it would come to this?

Never in a million years did I picture racing through empty streets at dawn, desperate to save my sister from a monster. Family drama is one thing—this was another world.

Over fifty years old and still a predator—towards his own daughter-in-law, no less.

A grown man, old enough to know better, acting like a monster. I felt cold rage burning in my chest, the kind that makes you want to break something.

Half an hour later, I barreled into my sister’s apartment complex in Toledo, heart pounding.

The sky was just turning gray, the city asleep except for the flicker of hallway lights. I sprinted from my car, barely remembering to lock it, breath fogging in the icy air.

The elevator was broken—no matter how many times I jabbed the button, it wouldn’t come. I took the stairs, flying up to the twenty-second floor.

By the twelfth, my legs burned, but adrenaline kept me going. Two steps at a time, gripping the cold rail, I burst onto the twenty-second floor with sweat stinging my eyes despite the chill.

The door was wide open.

A wave of dread crashed over me. Anything could’ve happened. The building was silent but for the distant police radios and my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.

The old creep and the cops stood by the elevator, apparently wrapping up their mediation.

The flickering lights revealed the old man’s hunched form. The cops looked weary, like this was just another ugly night in a city that never slept.

The old man was bowing and scraping, hands clasped, apologizing over and over to the officers.

He laid it on thick—shoulders slumped, voice syrupy and desperate. His hands twisted together like he was praying, but everyone knew it was just for show.

One cop, half in the elevator, nodded. "Don’t let this happen again. This kind of thing is disgraceful."

His voice was clipped and tired, like he’d said it a hundred times and knew it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t even look the old man in the eye as the doors slid shut.

The old creep nodded frantically, "I promise, I promise, I was drunk tonight. It won’t happen again."

He kept bowing, words slurring, the stink of whiskey in every syllable. He really thought this pathetic show would wipe it all away.

I moved to approach, but someone blocked me: "Why are you here? It’s so late. Why aren’t you home in bed?"

The voice was sharp, defensive. Ethan—my sister’s husband—stood in the doorway, face shadowed under the harsh lights.

He was just back from a factory shift, boots and jacket still on, hands dirty, gloves stuffed in his pocket. He looked dead tired but his jaw was set, eyes cold.

I brushed past him and rushed inside to find my sister.

The apartment reeked of burnt coffee. I barely registered Ethan’s glare as I made for the living room.

She was on the couch, clutching my nephew, eyes red and hair wild.

The kid—no older than six—buried his face in her chest, arms locked around her like a lifeline. My sister’s bathrobe was twisted and damp, her face streaked with tears and mascara.

Her mother-in-law hovered beside her, whispering, "Don’t take it to heart. He was just drunk and acting crazy. He didn’t mean it. Why’d you call the police? If word gets out, how will we show our faces?"

She spoke in a hurried whisper, glancing at the window like the neighbors might be listening. Her hands wrung together, eyes darting like a trapped animal.

My sister croaked, "How was it not on purpose? Last night, after I showered, he even whistled at me!"

Her voice was hoarse, trembling but furious. She stared at her mother-in-law, searching for any trace of decency.

The old woman insisted, "He’s still family, honey. You can’t just accuse your own like that. What will people say?"

She leaned in, voice dropping even lower. Her tone was brittle, like someone who’s made the same excuses for decades.

I’d had enough. I shoved past her and knelt by my sister. "Did he touch you? Did anyone hit you? Tell me, and I’ll hit them back for you."

My voice was sharp, my body tense as I gently pried her hands away to check for injuries.

My sister looked up, saw it was me, grabbed my hand, and broke down.

She squeezed so tight it hurt, her whole body trembling. For a second, she was the little sister I used to protect from playground bullies.

Suddenly the old creep bellowed, "What are you crying for? You still have the nerve to cry!"

His voice boomed, harsh and venomous, as he stomped across the carpet, fists balled, face red with booze and rage.

Gone was the submissive act. He slammed the door and pounded the table, the stink of whiskey heavy in the air.

He’d dropped all pretense now—the real man, the one who ruled by fear, was back. The empty bottle on the table caught the morning light, glinting like a threat.

"You’ve made me lose all respect!"

He spat the words, voice cracking. He glared around the room, daring anyone to speak.

My sister and nephew shrank away, trembling.

The boy whimpered, burrowing deeper into his mom. My sister sat frozen, eyes wide and glassy.

I shot back, "Why are you yelling? You talk about respect, but when you pull this crap, don’t you think about your own damn reputation?"

My voice was louder than I meant. I could feel my anger boiling, hands shaking as I blocked his path.

"What crap? What did I do?" the old creep barked, hands on hips, spitting as he spoke. "I just asked my daughter-in-law to scrub my back. What’s wrong with that? If a daughter-in-law doesn’t serve her father-in-law, who does? Go ask around—what daughter-in-law doesn’t?"

He tried to play it off like some harmless family tradition, acting like we were all crazy for objecting. His entitlement was suffocating.

"Besides, this is my family’s business. What are you sticking your nose in for? Get out! Get out of my house!"

He jabbed a finger at me, voice rising. The veins in his neck bulged, breath thick with whiskey and rage. The old rules—respect, privacy, family—were his last defense.

There was no reasoning with this animal.

I stared him down, patience gone. He didn’t care about right or wrong, only about losing control.

So I turned to his son. "You heard him. Your dad asked your wife to scrub his back."

Ethan stood with his arms folded, leaning against the chipped kitchen counter. He looked at me like I was insane.

He didn’t budge. Arms crossed, he said coldly, "What, she’s acting like a victim now? It’s not that big a deal. You’re blowing this way out of proportion."

His words landed like ice. He spoke flat, dismissive, like what happened was nothing more than a spilled drink.

It was like being struck by lightning. My mind went blank, breath caught in my chest. I stared at him, searching for any trace of the man my sister married.

He added, "It’s not like she was some pure saint. She had a boyfriend in college—she wasn’t a virgin. Now she acts like scrubbing someone’s back makes her some kind of martyr?"

The room shrank, the walls pressing in. He sneered, dismissing years of loyalty in a single sentence. My fists curled so tight my nails cut my palms.