Chapter 4

Cody' s attitude went from dismissive to openly disrespectful. It started with small things, refusing to do chores, talking back. But it escalated quickly.

One evening, I was working on a new quilt pattern, a complex design I hoped might impress the committee at the Institute. Cody walked in, munching on a bag of expensive chips Ethan had "found" in his truck.

"What' s that ugly thing?" he asked, crumbs scattering on my fabric.

"Cody, please be careful," I said, my voice tight. "This is important."

"It' s just old rags," he sneered. "Aunt Ronnie says handmade stuff is usually tacky unless it' s, like, ironic."

"This isn't tacky, Cody. It' s art."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Can I have money for the new video game? Dad said he' s broke this week."

"Your father says a lot of things," I muttered, then said more clearly, "I don' t have extra money for video games right now, honey. This quilting, it' s how I help make money for us."

"You don' t make any real money," he scoffed. "Dad does all the work. You just sit around sewing."

The words stung, not just because they were cruel, but because they were a distorted echo of what Ethan must have subtly fed him. My contribution, my art, was nothing.

A few days later, it got worse. I' d asked him to clear his toys from the living room floor. He ignored me. When I asked again, more firmly, he turned, his face contorted in a miniature version of Ethan' s angry sneer.

"You' re not the boss of me!" he yelled. "Dad says I don' t have to listen to you when you' re being annoying!"

Then he did something that shocked me to my core. He kicked a pile of carefully sorted fabric squares, sending them flying. "This stuff is stupid! I wish Aunt Ronnie was my mom! She' s cool, and she' s pretty! You' re just old and boring!"

He shoved me. Not hard, but it was the intent behind it. He actually shoved me.

My eight-year-old son.

"Cody!" I gasped, more hurt than angry. "Don't you ever, ever do that again! I am your mother!"

Tears welled in my eyes, not just from his words, but from the realization of how deeply I' d lost him. He didn' t see me as his mother, not really. He saw me as an obstacle, an inferior version of the woman his father clearly preferred.

Ethan walked in then, drawn by the shouting. "What' s going on here?" he asked, his eyes immediately going to Cody, who was now theatrically sniffling.

"She was yelling at me!" Cody wailed, pointing an accusing finger. "And she said my art projects with Aunt Ronnie are dumb!"

"Sarah," Ethan said, his voice cold, "what did you say to him?" He didn't even ask what Cody had done.

"He kicked my fabrics, Ethan! He said he wished Veronica was his mother! He pushed me!" My voice trembled with a mixture of pain and outrage.

Ethan just looked at me, his expression unreadable but certainly not sympathetic. He put a hand on Cody' s shoulder. "Go on over to Ronnie' s, son. Tell her I' ll be by later."

Cody shot me a triumphant smirk and ran out the door.

Ethan turned back to me, his face hard. "You need to stop upsetting him, Sarah. He' s sensitive."

"He pushed me, Ethan! He said horrible things!"

"Kids say things," Ethan dismissed, bending down to pick up a few of the scattered fabric squares, his movements careless. "Maybe if you weren't so focused on these... hobbies... you' d have a better relationship with him."

Hobbies. My art, my passion, my potential livelihood, reduced to a hobby.

He dropped the fabrics on the table and walked out, leaving me standing alone in the messy room, the silence ringing with Cody's cruel words and Ethan' s complete invalidation. The physical pain in my arm where Cody had shoved me was dull, but the pain in my heart was sharp, unbearable. I was truly alone in this family.