I was seven years old the night my stepfather, Tom Harris, drove me through a downpour to my grandparents’ house in Portland. The entire ride felt suspended in a strange, heavy silence. Only the windshield wipers dared to speak, dragging back and forth with a tired squeak. I kept my forehead against the cool glass, trying to see where we were going, but everything outside was just rain and blurred streetlights. My mother sat rigid in the passenger seat, her fingers trembling …

I was seven years old the night my stepfather, Tom Harris, drove me through a downpour to my grandparents’ house in Portland. The entire ride felt suspended in a strange, heavy silence. Only the windshield wipers dared to speak, dragging back and forth with a tired squeak. I kept my forehead against the cool glass, trying to see where we were going, but everything outside was just rain and blurred streetlights.

My mother sat rigid in the passenger seat, her fingers trembling in her lap. She didn’t look at me. Not once.

When the car finally slowed to a stop, Tom stepped out without a word and lifted my small suitcase from the trunk.
My mother stayed inside. I waited for her to step out, to explain, to take my hand. She never moved.

“Out,” Tom said, his voice stripped of emotion.

I hesitated, confused. “Mom?”

She didn’t meet my eyes.

“It’s better for you, Ethan,” she whispered, barely holding herself together.
“You… you bring bad luck. We can’t… we can’t do this anymore.”

The rain soaked through my shoes as I watched their car pull away, the red taillights shrinking into the darkness. I stood on the porch alone until my grandparents opened the door. They didn’t ask anything that night. They wrapped me in a blanket, sat me by the fire, and stayed beside me until the shaking stopped.

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