As I watched the footage, the reality was laid bare. Trevor was pleading, tears streaming down his face as he begged for his bike to remain untouched. My father’s eyes were cold, determined, as if teaching a lesson was worth more than a child’s happiness. The video showed him lifting the bike high before smashing it down, each blow echoing with the sound of a trust being shattered.
I stood in silent horror, the world narrowing to the confines of what was captured on that small screen. My mother appeared halfway through, her demeanor passive, condoning her husband’s actions through silence. She glanced at Trevor’s tear-streaked face, and then back at my father with a small, approving nod.
The footage ended, leaving silence in its wake, a silence that screamed of betrayal and cruelty disguised as tough love. My father rubbed his chin with a smug air of self-righteousness, as if expecting me to nod in agreement with his methods.
