The next morning, my phone was flooded with messages and missed calls from my father and mother. Curiously absent was any communication from Derek. I ignored the notifications at first, opting to focus on making breakfast for Lucas, who had slept restlessly in my bed after the ordeal. I wanted to create a peaceful environment for him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the barbecue.
As we sat at the kitchen table, Lucas slowly picked at his cereal, his eyes still puffy from the previous day’s tears. “Dad, why did Uncle Derek burn my toys?” he asked, an innocence in his voice that made my heart ache.
I leaned over, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Sometimes, people think they’re helping when they’re not,” I explained gently. “But that doesn’t make it right. What Uncle Derek did was wrong, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
