Broken Bonds: The Return

She became lady of the house. Fired the original nanny, the driver, the housekeeper who cared for Noah. Brought in her own mother and a bunch of relatives to replace them. She threw away all my photos and belongings. The family albums, the birthday cards, even my favorite mug—gone, tossed in black trash bags.

Noah tried to stop them from tossing things, but Marissa dragged him over and slapped him twice, then threatened, "From now on, I’m your mom in this house. If you want to see your dead mom, I can send you to her!" Her voice was cold. Her eyes—flat, hard. No mercy there. My little boy’s face crumpled, and I felt a scream rise in my throat.

Because I couldn’t let go of Noah, I didn’t move on. I followed him every day, watching that woman feed him leftovers from the dog’s bowl. When he cried and refused to eat, she’d shove his head toward the dog’s dish. The kitchen used to smell like cinnamon rolls and laughter. Now it just reeked of cruelty.

He choked on the scraps and couldn’t breathe, so the mother and daughter dragged him by the collar to the bathroom and dumped cold water over his head, making him cough and sob. The two women gloated, saying if he wanted to die, he should hurry up and stop wasting their son’s resources. Their laughter was sharp, echoing off the marble tile.

I wanted to stab those two monsters, but my hand passed through the knife. I could only watch helplessly as they abused my son right in front of me. The helplessness was suffocating—a silent scream that never stopped.

My son, soaked and shivering, was thrown into the bathroom. Feverish, hungry, and in pain, his tiny fists clenched. When he finally caught his breath, he curled up in the corner, crying for his mom. His voice was hoarse, breaking my heart all over again.

Such a small child couldn’t understand how, in just two days, his life had gone from heaven to hell. He clutched a worn-out teddy bear, the only thing Marissa hadn’t noticed yet.

I knelt beside him, sobbing, "Noah, Mommy was wrong. I shouldn’t have left you like this. I should have stayed to protect you. It’s all my fault." My tears fell on the cold tile, invisible, useless. I would’ve given anything to hold him, just once.

But there’s no cure for regret. Not in this world. Since I made this choice, I had to bear the consequences. The weight of it pressed down on me, heavier than any grief.

All I could hope was that Carter would come home and, seeing his son like this, would finally stand up to that woman. After all, Noah was his own son. I clung to that hope like a lifeline, praying for a miracle.

But I was hoping for too much. When Carter got home, the first thing he asked about was the baby in Marissa’s belly. It wasn’t until the new housekeeper served dinner that he realized Noah wasn’t there. His voice was casual, almost bored, as if Noah was an afterthought.

"Where’s Noah?" he asked. The question hung in the air, ignored by everyone but me.

Marissa fed him fruit and said softly, "He came home from preschool, ate a little, said he was tired and didn’t want dinner, and went straight to bed." Her tone was gentle, practiced. She wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, eyes darting to Carter for approval.

Noah’s sleeping habits had always been a headache. He’d be bouncing around at nine or ten at night—how could he go to bed early? But Carter believed the obvious lie. He nodded, barely glancing up from his phone.

He lowered his head to sip his soup, occasionally picking food for his new wife, telling her to eat more and not go hungry. He didn’t know that this woman did nothing all day but eat and sleep, while his own son hadn’t eaten in a whole day and night. The irony stung.

A whole day and night. That’s how long it had been. Since Marissa came, she never sent Noah to preschool again. She thought it was a waste of money and didn’t want him to get a good education. She told the school there was a family emergency and asked for a long leave, then told Noah he was unnecessary in the family and she wouldn’t support someone who did nothing. If he didn’t do chores, he wouldn’t get to eat. The words were cruel, and they stuck to him like burrs.

Poor Noah, who used to have the nanny dress him, was only three years old. What chores could he do? His hands were too small to even hold the mop right.

But Marissa didn’t care. She enjoyed tormenting Noah, making him crawl on the floor and wipe it inch by inch. His little body was soaked, shivering from the cold, but he didn’t dare stop—if he did, the housekeeper would shock him with a dog-training collar. Even when his hands were rubbed raw and bleeding, he didn’t dare cry. If he cried, he’d get shocked again. The device was hidden under his shirt, and he flinched at every beep.

This woman deliberately shocked him where his clothes covered, so there’d be no visible scars. If Noah dared complain, even worse punishments waited. The threat was always there, hanging over him like a storm cloud.

---

Under all this, Noah developed a high fever that wouldn’t go away. Marissa deliberately waited until the next day to take him to the hospital. She made sure he suffered, just enough to keep her hands clean.

The doctor said Noah was suffering from cold and hunger. The words landed like a slap. Carter just frowned, like it was some minor inconvenience.

Carter finally found it odd. Marissa cried to him, "It’s all my fault, I didn’t take care of him. I thought he didn’t like me, so I let him be, and let him play with water, so he caught a fever. He doesn’t like to eat, and I didn’t do my duty as a mom. He doesn’t want to eat what I cook. I should’ve tried something else instead of stubbornly making the same food..." Her tears were crocodile, her voice trembling just enough to sound believable.