Chapter 4 - The Puppet Master’s Grip
By Monday morning, Trevor was acting as if Saturday had never happened.
He came down the stairs wearing his tailored navy suit, whistling a generic tune, and kissed the top of Julian’s head while the boy ate his oatmeal in silence. Julian barely looked up from his bowl. The child’s usual bright chatter about velociraptor hunting patterns was completely gone, replaced by a timid, anxious silence that broke my heart anew every time I looked at him.
“Big day at school today, buddy?” Trevor asked, grabbing an apple. “Mr. Henderson said you guys were starting science presentations soon.”
“I don't want to do dinosaurs anymore,” Julian muttered, staring at his spoon.
Trevor blinked, caught off guard. “Why not? You love dinosaurs.”
Julian didn't answer. He didn't need to. He had memorized the words: *“A real boy doesn't play with dirt and plastic monsters.”*
Trevor glanced at me across the kitchen island, his eyes pleading for me not to bring it up. I said nothing. I simply packed Julian’s lunchbox, sealed his thermos, and walked him to the car.
When I returned from the school drop-off, Trevor was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed.
“My mother called while you were out,” he said, his tone tight and commanding.
“Did she?” I hung my coat on the peg.
“Yes. She said she’s willing to overlook your hostility on Saturday if you come to the rehearsal dinner at the church hall tomorrow evening. Pastor Wayne wants the family on the dais with her when she receives the Lifetime Pillar Award on Sunday.”
“I’m not going to the rehearsal dinner,” I said calmly.
Trevor’s face darkened. He stepped toward me, using his height to try and intimidate me the way his mother had taught him. “You are coming, Kelsey. This is my family. My mother’s name is on half the buildings in this town. You are not going to humiliate me by leaving an empty chair next to mine while the entire congregation watches.”
“Your mother humiliated our son in front of ten children,” I replied, matching his stare without flinching. “Where was your anger then, Trevor? Where was your pride then?”
“It was a private family matter!” he yelled. “This award is public!”
“That is your sickness, Trevor. You care about the applause of strangers more than the soul of your own flesh and blood.”
Before he could answer, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a notification from Julian’s school principal, Mrs. Vance.
*Dear Mrs. Calloway, please be advised that Mrs. Bernice Calloway contacted the administration this morning requesting a private conference regarding Julian’s academic placement and behavioral evaluation for the upcoming term. Per school policy, we require parental authorization before proceeding.*
My vision blurred with rage.
She was already moving. Bernice wasn't content with breaking Julian’s spirit at home; she was attempting to use her influence on the local school board to have Julian labeled “developmentally delayed” or “disruptive,” setting the stage to push him into a rigid military boarding school she had praised for years.
I turned the phone screen toward Trevor.
“Look at this,” I demanded.
Trevor looked. His eyes widened slightly, but instead of outrage, an expression of exasperated defeat crossed his face. “She… she probably just wants to make sure he gets the best tutors, Kelsey. She knows the superintendent personally. It’s an advantage!”
“She is trying to take my son from me,” I said, every word hitting the air like a hammer. “She is trying to reshape him into something that doesn't embarrass her country club friends. And you are standing here defending her.”
“She’s my mother!” he screamed, losing all composure. “What do you want from me? You want me to spit in her face? You want me to throw away our entire future because she wrote a few harsh words on a card? Grow up!”
“I’m not asking you to spit in her face, Trevor,” I said softly, feeling the last remaining ember of love I had ever held for him turn to cold, gray ash. “I was asking you to be a father. But I see now that you’re still just an obedient little boy.”
He stared at me, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight.
“If you don't show up on Sunday,” Trevor said, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper, “don't bother being here when I get home. Because I will choose my family every single time.”
May you like
“Good,” I said. “Because I’m choosing mine.”
***
