He catches my eye, that cruel smirk I've grown to despise playing on his lips. "Go to your room," he spits, voice dripping with contempt.

Something inside me snaps.

Like a dam breaking, years of pent-up fear and helplessness surge through me. I lunge forward, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from her with every ounce of strength I possess.

He hits the floor hard. Before he can recover, I'm on him, hands fisted in his shirt. My vision blurs red as my fists connect with his face, each impact sending shockwaves of savage satisfaction through my body.

"Stop it, Nate! Please, stop!" Mom's voice cuts through the haze, trembling with fear—not just for herself anymore, but for me.

I freeze, chest heaving. Beneath me, that fucking smirk still plays on his face. "You better get off me," he hisses.

"Get out," I growl, the words scraping my throat raw. "Before I fucking kill you."

He hesitates, calculating. When he finally stands, I shove him back. His hands find my throat, slamming me against the wall. "You need to remember your fucking place while you're under my roof," he spits, grip tightening before he releases me.

I hold his gaze until he stumbles out, the door's slam echoing through the house like a gunshot.

The silence that follows is deafening. Mom remains crumpled on the floor, hands trembling as they ghost over her bruised throat. I drop beside her, pulling her into my arms, trying to shield her from a world that's already hurt her too much.

"Mom," I whisper, my voice cracking. "You're bleeding."

She clings to me, her silent sobs soaking through my shirt. Each tear adds another crack to my heart as I hold her on the cold floor, offering the only comfort I can—my presence.

As her breathing steadies, I loosen my grip but don't let go. Can't let go.

"Mom, you can't keep doing this," I say quietly. "You have to leave him. This isn't normal. It's not okay."

She shakes her head, pulling back to meet my eyes. "He's just stressed. Work has been rough, and the drinking—he doesn't mean it. He's just⁠⁠—"

"No," I cut her off. "You can't keep justifying this. It's not stress, and it's not just the drinking. It's the lying, the cheating. He's hurting you in every way, and it's getting worse."

Her face crumples. "You're not going to understand this but I'm trying to keep us together. And I'm sorry, Nate. I wish you didn't see any of this."

"Well, it's too late for that. I've seen it all. And if you think this is keeping us together, look around. We're falling apart." The words feel like shards of glass in my throat.

She twists her fingers together; a nervous habit I've watched develop over years of abuse. "I know you think I'm stupid for staying," she whispers.

"I don't think⁠⁠—"