My 8-year-old son came home, hugged me, and whispered, “They ate at a restaurant while I waited in the car for two hours.” I didn’t ask any questions. I simply grabbed my keys, drove to my parents’ house, walked in, and without hesitation, I did this…

Chapter 1: The Quiet After the Storm

My eight-year-old son, Ethan, came home on a Tuesday afternoon with the weight of a grown man on his small shoulders.

He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t run to his room to play with Legos. He simply walked into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed his face against my stomach. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the smell of sweat and stale air clinging to his clothes. “Dad,” he whispered, his voice dry and scratchy. “They ate at a restaurant while I waited in the car.”

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