Chapter 2
"She made him sleep in the laundry room."
My mother's words struck me so hard that I forgot how to breathe.
I stared at her.
"What?"
Denise immediately shook her head.
"That's a lie."
Grandma Evelyn pointed toward Malik.
"Ask your son."
I turned.
Malik had stopped eating.
His fork rested untouched beside his plate.
"Son?"
He lowered his head.
I felt something cold move through my chest.
"Malik, look at me."
He slowly raised his eyes.
"Have you been sleeping in the laundry room?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Sometimes."
I gripped the back of a chair.
"Why?"
"Because Denise said I was disturbing everybody."
My voice became unsteady.
"Disturbing them how?"
"I was studying late."
Denise threw up her hands.
"He plays music when everyone is trying to sleep!"
Malik shook his head.
"I use headphones."
"Don't interrupt me!"
I stepped between them.
"Stop yelling at him."
Denise stared at me.
"Marcus, you're letting him manipulate you."
I ignored her.
"How many nights, son?"
Malik looked at Grandma Evelyn.
Then whispered, "Six."
I felt sick.
"Six nights?"
He nodded.
"Last month."
I closed my eyes.
I'd been traveling for work that month.
My construction company had taken on a major project in Charlotte, and I'd spent several nights away supervising the crew.
Every evening, I'd called home.
Every evening, Denise told me everything was wonderful.
And every time I spoke to Malik, he said he was fine.
I remembered asking whether he was getting enough sleep.
He always answered yes.
Now I understood why his voice had sounded so tired.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Malik stared at his hands.
"Denise said you'd be disappointed."
My throat tightened.
"Disappointed in what?"
"Me."
I couldn't speak.
My mother walked toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Baby, you did nothing wrong."
Malik's eyes filled.
Denise shook her head.
"This is unbelievable. You're all acting like I locked him outside."
I turned toward her.
"You made my son sleep beside a washing machine."
"It was temporary."
"On what?"
"A mattress."
"Why?"
"He needed to learn respect."
I looked toward Jordan and Brianna.
"Did either of you know?"
Jordan stared at the table.
Brianna began crying.
"Answer me."
Jordan swallowed.
"Yes, sir."
My stomach twisted.
"And neither of you told me?"
Denise immediately stepped forward.
"Leave my children out of this."
I turned toward her.
"You had no problem dragging mine into it."
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
I looked back at Malik.
"Son, what else happened?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
But Grandma Evelyn spoke again.
"Marcus, she took his bedroom door off the hinges."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Last Tuesday."
I turned toward Malik.
He nodded.
"She said I didn't deserve privacy."
I felt my hands begin to shake.
"Did she put it back?"
He shook his head.
I looked toward the hallway.
His bedroom was upstairs.
His private space.
The room where he'd kept photographs of his mother.
I remembered helping him paint the walls dark blue when he turned fourteen.
I remembered buying him the desk he'd wanted for school.
I remembered telling him that room would always belong to him.
And while I was away, Denise had stripped away his privacy.
I turned toward her.
"Why would you do that?"
She scoffed.
"Because he was hiding things."
"What things?"
"He wouldn't let me inspect his phone."
I stared at her.
"You removed his bedroom door because he wanted privacy?"
"He's a teenager!"
"He's a human being!"
My voice echoed through the dining room.
Everyone froze.
I took a breath.
I didn't want Malik to be frightened by my anger too.
I lowered my voice.
"Son, finish eating. Nobody is taking that plate away."
Malik nodded.
But his hands were shaking.
I looked toward my mother.
"Mom, can you stay with him?"
She nodded immediately.
"Of course."
I turned toward Denise.
"We need to talk."
She crossed her arms.
"Fine."
We walked into the living room.
The moment we were away from the table, Denise started speaking.
"Your mother has hated me since the wedding."
I stared at her.
"Don't change the subject."
"She never wanted you to remarry."
"Why did Malik sleep in the laundry room?"
"Because he needed consequences."
"For what?"
"His attitude."
"What attitude?"
Denise hesitated.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
"He reminds everyone that this isn't a real family."
I stared at her.
"What did you just say?"
She sighed.
"Marcus, be reasonable. He's always bringing up Angela."
I felt my heart stop.
Angela.
My first wife.
Malik's mother.
The woman we'd buried five years earlier.
"What does Angela have to do with this?"
Denise looked away.
"He keeps her pictures everywhere."
I stepped closer.
"She's his mother."
"And I'm tired of living in her shadow!"
I stared at her.
There it was.
The truth she'd been hiding.
This wasn't about chores.
Or discipline.
Or respect.
This was about jealousy.
My wife was punishing my son because he still loved his dead mother.
I looked toward the dining room.
Then back at Denise.
"Where are Angela's pictures?"
Denise hesitated.
"What?"
"The photographs Malik keeps in his room."
She folded her arms.
"I put them somewhere safe."
"Where?"
"Marcus—"
"Where are they?"
She looked toward the garage.
My stomach sank.
I walked past her.
Straight toward the garage door.
"Marcus, don't!"
I ignored her.
When I opened the garage storage cabinet, I found a cardboard box.
Inside were old school papers.
A broken lamp.
Christmas decorations.
And beneath everything, wrapped in a dirty towel, was the framed photograph of Angela holding Malik as a baby.
The glass was cracked.
I picked it up.
My hands trembled.
Behind me, Denise whispered, "It was an accident."
I turned slowly.
May you like
And asked the question that changed everything.
"What else have you taken from my son?"
