Chapter 1
The kitchen was too bright for what was happening in it. Midday light poured through the glass-pane door and hit the white cabinets and the marble island until everything looked clean and exposed, and Leo was screaming.
That was the contradiction I couldn't hold in my head. The recessed lights were warm, the wood floor was clean, his red and white stripes were straight and small against my legs, and Martha had him. Not holding him. Having him. Her navy coat was still on inside the house, her gray bun tight, her hand clamped around his little arm and the other clamped around my wrist like she was the one keeping us apart. She was at her peak, calm and tight and certain.
My name is Victoria. I was twenty-nine that winter and I had learned to breathe quietly when someone else got loud.
It was just after lunch. Leo had been at the island with me, his hands on the marble, my black smartphone facedown beside the fruit bowl where I'd left it. Martha had come through the glass door without knocking the way she always did, and she'd lifted Leo before I could step in. I'd reached for him. She'd twisted, pulled him into her chest, and then grabbed my arms to stop me from taking him back. Her fingers dug in. The white dome camera in the corner of the ceiling blinked red. I could hear Leo's breath catching between screams.
"Don't hit mom," Leo sobbed against her coat. His curly hair was pressed flat on one side where she'd held him too close.
Martha didn't let go. She turned her head toward the door and raised her voice, thin and sharp.
"Connor, she hit mom. Mom," she said, and her face changed. The tension was gone. She went soft and injured in an instant, her mouth trembling, her eyes filling like I'd struck her.
I hadn't touched her.
The glass door slammed open and the air moved. Connor came through it so fast the light stuttered across his olive bomber jacket. His dark fade was still damp from outside, his white tee riding up as he reached.
"Dare you hit my mother," he said to me. He wasn't looking at Martha. He wasn't looking at Leo. He was looking at my hands still lifted toward my son.
I had half a second to say no. I didn't get it.
His palm connected with my cheek. It wasn't a slap you hear in a movie. It was flat and heavy and it turned my head toward the island. My cheek went hot and then numb. My eyes watered before I could decide not to. I heard Leo cry harder, eyes squeezed shut, tears catching on his cheeks. I clutched my face without thinking, my mouth open, my breath stuck. Connor's hand was still raised. His brows were locked, his mouth open, yelling something I couldn't hear over the ringing.
I tasted nothing. I felt the cold marble against my hip where I'd stumbled.
For a second I stared at my phone on the island. The black screen reflected the ceiling lights. The camera dome reflected in it too.
I had to get to Leo. That was the first thought that came back. The second was that no one would believe what had just happened unless I showed it.
I pushed off the island and grabbed the phone. My fingers slipped once. I swiped with my thumb and the screen lit up, and I held it out with both hands so Connor could see.
The playback was already cued from the motion alert. Grainy and wide and undeniable. It showed the kitchen from above, time-stamped, daylight bright. It showed Martha holding Leo against her while I reached for him, both my hands open, empty. It showed her gripping my arms, not the other way around. It showed Connor bursting through the glass door.
Connor stared. The anger didn't leave his face all at once. It drained slowly, his mouth still slightly open, his eyes widening as he processed the small screen in my hands. He didn't move. He didn't lower his hand right away. He just looked from the phone to my cheek and then to his mother.
Martha made a small sound behind him, still holding Leo.
Leo looked up at me, teary, his overalls twisted, his voice hoarse from crying. He wasn't screaming now. He was speaking to the room like he'd asked this before and no one had answered.
May you like
"Why does everyone hit mom?" he said.
I held the phone tighter. The footage looped. Connor kept staring at it, frozen mid-breath, no answer yet, and the kitchen door was still open to the cold air outside.
