Chapter 2: The Knife's Edge of Choice

"Since the kids have chosen, let’s leave it at that," Dad said, frowning as he laid down his final ultimatum to Mom. He crossed his arms, looking like a judge passing sentence.

His voice was cold, businesslike, like he was settling an account instead of tearing a family in half. I could see the set of his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. For a second, I hated him.

"Denise, I’ll ask you one last time—are you coming with me to start a business or not?"

He always used Mom’s full name when he was mad, as if it made him the boss. The question hung in the air, heavy as a thundercloud. My stomach knotted, waiting for her answer.

Before Mom could answer, my brother tugged at Dad’s arm and blurted out, "Dad, she’s got no vision. She’ll just drag us down!"

He sounded desperate, almost panicked, like he was afraid the deal would fall through if he didn’t speak up. For a second, he looked like a little kid again.

Dad’s frown deepened. "Why are you talking like that today? That’s your mother you’re talking about!" he snapped. His voice echoed off the walls, sharp and final.

For a second, I almost believed he cared. But the anger in his voice was more about appearances than actual love. I could see it in his eyes—he was just saving face.

Seeing Dad was mad, my brother quickly dropped his head, but shot us a resentful glare from the corner of his eye. His fists clenched, jaw tight, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

He kicked at the floor, muttering under his breath. The air was thick with tension, the kind that makes your skin itch. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.

Mom pressed her lips together, tears streaming down her face. I knew how torn she was inside. The truth is, she’d never been happy living with Dad all these years. Dad was a college graduate, which made him the pride of his family back then, someone everyone respected. It made him arrogant, and he always looked down on Mom, who grew up on a small farm. At home, he never lifted a finger. Whenever work went bad, he’d take it out on Mom, hitting her hard every time. He’d curse her as the reason for all his bad luck. I remembered the bruises, the way she’d flinch at sudden noises.

She tried to hide the bruises with long sleeves, kept her head down at family gatherings. The neighbors pretended not to notice, but everyone knew. In a town this small, secrets never stayed buried for long.

So when they fought over whether he should quit his job and start a business, Dad used it as an excuse to ask for a divorce. For Mom, wasn’t this a chance to finally escape her misery? But because she cared so much about family, she kept hesitating.

She’d grown up believing marriage was forever, that you stuck it out for the kids. Even when the house felt more like a prison than a home, she clung to hope.

Still, I believed Mom would make the right choice, just like she did last time. I held my breath, waiting for her to speak.

I watched her, willing her to be brave. This was her chance to start over, to finally breathe easy.

"Let’s get divorced."

After a long pause, Mom finally made her decision. Just like before, she chose to end the painful marriage.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was steady. For the first time in years, she looked lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Relief flickered in her eyes.

As agreed, the house would stay with Mom. Dad took the $300 they’d saved and left with my brother. He didn’t say goodbye.

The house was nothing special—a sagging porch, peeling paint, the smell of old wood and dust. But it was home, and Mom clung to it like a life raft. Dad barely looked back as he pocketed the cash and headed for the door.

Before leaving, Dad looked over the old house one last time, his expression twisted with something I couldn’t quite read—regret, maybe, or just impatience. My brother kept urging him, his voice sharp and anxious: "Dad, stop staring! Let’s go already!"

He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, glancing nervously at me and Mom, as if afraid we’d somehow change our minds and snatch his future away. His anxiety was almost palpable.

He was terrified something might change, scared I’d steal his shot at becoming a rich kid. His eyes darted between us, wild and desperate.

The fear in his eyes was almost comical—like he thought the world owed him something, and this was his one shot to collect. For a moment, I almost pitied him.

But after being pushed one too many times, Dad finally snapped. He suddenly turned and slapped my brother hard across the face. The slap cracked through the room, and a red welt bloomed on his cheek.

The sound echoed down the hall, sharp as a gunshot. My brother gasped, stunned, his eyes filling with tears he refused to let fall. He stood frozen, too proud to cry.

"You little brat, this is your home—why are you in such a hurry to leave?" Dad barked.

His voice was rough, full of old anger. For a second, even I flinched. My heart pounded in my chest.

My brother clutched his face, his eyes flashing with anger and defiance. Dad looked like he wanted to hit him again, but Mom couldn’t take it anymore and shouted, "If you lay a hand on the kids again, you can forget about either of them—I’ll raise them both myself!" She stepped forward, planting herself between Dad and my brother. For once, she looked unbreakable. The room went still.

Before Dad could say anything, my brother panicked and yelled, "No! I want to go with Dad! I don’t want to stay with you! I don’t want to be poor and starving!"

He was sobbing now, snot and tears running down his face. The words spilled out in a rush, raw and ugly. The pain in his voice made my chest tighten.

Mom looked lost, her eyes full of helplessness and pain. She couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong—how could the child she loved so much hate her like this?

She looked at me, searching for answers I didn’t have. The silence in the room was suffocating.

I quickly stepped forward, gently pulling Mom aside, hoping to give her some peace and shield her from my brother’s hurtful words. I squeezed her hand, wishing I could protect her from everything.

We slipped into the kitchen, the familiar clatter of dishes grounding us. I poured her a glass of water, wishing I could do more.

Then Dad followed us in and said, "Or you can keep both kids and I’ll just pay child support."

His tone was dismissive, like we were just another bill to pay. The words stung, but at least they gave Mom a sliver of control. For a second, I thought she might cry again.

My brother had always been a handful—getting into trouble at school, fighting, causing all sorts of chaos. Once, he broke a classmate’s nose in a fight. When the school called Dad in, he was so furious he almost beat my brother half to death. It was Mom, crying and shielding him, who saved him from worse. Since then, Dad held it against my brother, always finding fault. My brother must have known this deep down—otherwise, he wouldn’t have chosen Mom first in our last life.

He was the kind of kid teachers dreaded—mouthy, quick to throw a punch, always in the principal’s office. But under all that bravado, he just wanted someone to fight for him.

But this time, wanting a better life, he picked Dad, the one with money. He never expected Dad might not want him at all. The realization hit him hard.

It was almost sad, watching his face fall as reality set in. The world doesn’t hand out second chances, not even to desperate kids.

And now, Mom was hesitating too.

She looked torn, her hands twisting in her lap. I could see the war waging inside her—love for her son, fear for the future. Her eyes darted between us, searching for hope.

I was anxious. I knew if my brother stayed with Mom, none of us would have an easy life. Panicking, I ran outside and baited my brother: "Dad says you have to stay."

I leaned against the porch railing, trying to sound casual, but my heart was racing. I knew exactly which buttons to push—sometimes, you have to play the villain to save the people you love.

The moment he heard that, he charged at me like a wild bull, grabbed my shirt, and snarled, "Dylan, if you try anything, I swear I’ll kill you! Last time you got to live the good life—this time it’s my turn, you hear me!"

His grip was tight, his breath hot on my face. For a second, I saw the old hate in his eyes, burning brighter than ever.

I kept a straight face and pretended to be clueless. "What are you talking about? I don’t get it."

I shrugged, feigning innocence. Inside, my mind was spinning—was he really remembering the past, or just lashing out?

Grinding his teeth, my brother let go of me and ran back inside to protest to our parents. "I want to go with Dad! I’m not staying! Dad, if you don’t take me, I’ll kill myself right here!"

He was screaming now, voice cracking, the kitchen knife glinting in his hand. The threat hung in the air, chilling and real. The moment felt endless.

He threatened to kill himself, even grabbing a kitchen knife and pressing it to his neck. Mom turned pale with fear, her voice shaking as she begged Dad to take him away.

Her hands trembled, reaching for the phone, desperate for help. The whole scene felt surreal, like a bad TV movie come to life.

Seeing this, Dad finally gave in, and my brother got what he wanted. The two of them left together, Dad striding ahead and leaving my brother to run just to keep up.

The front door slammed, and for a moment, the house was silent. I watched them disappear down the driveway, the dust swirling behind them, my brother’s figure small and desperate against the setting sun.

Watching them go, I felt a storm of emotions. First, my brother insulted Mom, then threatened to kill himself to force Dad’s hand. His path this life is bound to be full of hardship—thin ice every step.

I stood on the porch long after they were gone, the cicadas buzzing in the humid Ohio evening, wondering if any of us would ever find our way back home again.

I wasn’t sure which scared me more: the past I remembered or the future barreling toward us.