Chapter 4: The Breaking Point

04

"Besides, doesn’t she love to flirt? She’s always smiling at the DoorDash guy."

He scoffed, like being polite to a delivery driver was proof of betrayal. I felt sick at his pettiness.

My sister shook with anger, lips pale. "Ethan... you really think of me like this? You, back then, back then..."

Her voice cracked, haunted by memories of better days. She looked at him like he was a stranger.

"Forget the past," he sneered. "I only put up with you because you gave me a son. Otherwise, who’d want a woman like you?"

He spat the words out, face twisted in a cruel smirk. My sister flinched, clutching her boy tighter.

"You seduced him," the old woman chimed in. "You’re just like all those other women—never proper, always trying to seduce men. If you didn’t walk around in those tight yoga pants, maybe he wouldn’t get the wrong idea," she muttered, eyes darting toward the neighbors’ window.

If I’d ever pitied her, I didn’t anymore.

Pity for her was a waste. Years of pain had twisted her, made her cruel—the kind who’d rather blame the victim than confront the truth. She glared at me, lips pinched, daring me to speak.

The scariest thing about pitiful people is how hateful they can get.

Survival had taught her to hurt others, to use cruelty as a shield. She was hollowed out, her empathy burned away.

She’d been put down all her life, got used to it, adapted. Now she dragged others down, needing everyone to revolve around the men. Only then did she feel balanced, like she wasn’t the only joke.

Her eyes glazed over as she repeated the same tired lines. It was easier to parrot the men’s excuses than to face her own heartbreak. Misery loves company.

My sister was speechless, tears streaming.

She covered her mouth, hands trembling. It was like watching someone drown in slow motion.

My nephew trembled so hard his Spider-Man pajamas quivered, but he still reached up to wipe her tears. "Mom, don’t cry. It’s all my fault. Don’t cry, Mom."

His voice was tiny, barely a whisper. He looked up at her with wide, scared eyes, clutching her like she was the only thing left in the world.

The old creep stomped over, grabbed my nephew, and shoved him into a room. "Good boy, go inside. Grownups will handle grownup business."

He tried to sound gentle, but his grip was rough. The kid stumbled into the bedroom, the door clicking shut. A faint sniffle echoed from inside.

Then he started shoving me. "Get out! You’re not welcome here!"

He jabbed my shoulder, shoving me toward the door. I could smell the sour mix of sweat and whiskey on his breath.

Then, without warning, he slapped my sister. "Damn it, calling the cops! Who taught you that? You even called the police!"

The slap rang out, sharp and ugly. Her head jerked to the side, a red mark blooming instantly on her cheek.

Everyone froze. The red handprint glared on her skin.

It happened so fast.

There was a heartbeat of silence, everyone stunned. My heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else.

I never imagined he’d hit my sister in front of me.

For a split second, I was a kid again, watching a bully push my sister on the playground—only now, the stakes were deadly.

My parents’ daughter, cherished since childhood, never even scolded harshly—now this monster dared lay hands on her.

How could he dare...