She never stood a chance, really.

She was broken long before I was born.

She met Scott at a college party, back when she still had light in her eyes. Scott Sullivan, with his polished name and family reputation, fell hard for her. His parents hated her—she wasn't good enough for their world of wealth and status. But they married anyway, and for a while, things were good. She loved him completely, but he chipped away at her until that light went out.

She thought I didn't know about the cheating, the endless string of women, the drugs I found evidence of—empty bottles, bags of white powder. When I confronted him, I wasn't expecting an apology, but I wasn't ready for the fury either. He threw me into a wall so hard I blacked out. Woke up with a concussion that cost me two weeks of football. Our relationship died that day.

I've been stuck here since, caught between the love I wanted to feel and the hate that's consumed me. Through it all, I had to shield Jake and protect him from seeing the ugliness of our family. I became the parent, the one who carried the weight of our dysfunction.

"I should have done more. Should have protected you better," Mom says softly, breaking. "I'm so sorry, Nate. For everything."

I nod, but the words won't come. I can't tell her it's okay, that I've forgiven her for staying, because I'm not sure I ever will. But I do what I've always done—I take care of her. Pull the blanket higher, sit with her until she sleeps.

And then, like every night before, I carry the weight in silence.

30. Wanna Fly?

CHAPTER 30

WANNA FLY?

NATE

February 2005

18 years old

The buzz of adrenaline is still thrumming in my veins. The team won today, but that high comes crashing down the second I step inside the house. The living room is destroyed with furniture overturned, glass shards glinting across the floor like cruel confetti. The stench of stale booze and something burnt hits me, and my gut twists because I already know what I'll find.

"Mom?" My voice barely carries as I move toward the kitchen. The silence screams louder than any noise could.

And then I see her.

She's curled up near the counter, clutching an empty vodka bottle like a lifeline. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, messy strands of hair hiding her face. She doesn't register my presence.

"Mom?" I try again, louder this time, stepping closer as panic sets in. My breath catches at the fresh bruise forming under her left eye—a sickly purple testament to his handiwork. Rage surges through me like electricity through a downed power line, my fists clenching until my knuckles go white.

He fucking did this.