“Oh, please, don’t make this aboutme.You weren’t being some heroic saviour, you were just an angry, violent child. Remember that Emile boy that you beat up?”
Seb frowns. “Emile—you meanEmile White?He was my best friend, I neverbeat him up!”
“That’s the one.” She turns to me, shaking her head sadly. “He almost broke the poor kid’s leg.”
“Itackled himwhile we were playing football. He fell, scraped his knee, and got right back up again.”
Ellen’s lips purse. “His mother complained to me that you were bullying him.”
“Well, he must have been some kind of masochist, considering how often he invited hisbullyover for dinner—”
“I’m just saying. You’ve always had a violent streak. I mean, look at you.” Her lip curls in disgust. “Here we are, trying to have a nice family dinner. I’ve spent all day slaving away in the kitchen. But you can’t even sit and eat fortenminutes without raising your voice at me. In front of your ownchild,mind you.” She turns to me. “Maybe you should take her out of the room. It’s bad for developing children to see their parents lose their temper like this. It can cause all kinds of trauma.”
I smile through gritted teeth. “Cami doesn’t look particularly traumatised.” We both glance across at the baby. She’s happily playing patty-cake in her potatoes, kicking her legs in her high chair. When she sees us all staring at her, she squeals with laughter and flops face-down onto the food tray. Seb gently pulls her upright, cleaning off her cheeks, and she looks at him with complete adoration.
Ellen sniffs. “Well. It’s only a matter of time. If I were you, I’d keep a close eye on my son. He can control himself for the most part, but it only takes one little incident. Honestly, with his anger management issues, I can’t help but worry about whether or not he’s a suitable parent at all. I’d hate to see something… happen to the child.”
My mouth falls open. There’s a loud, suddencrack.I jump, turning to see Sebastian holding his shattered wine glass by the stem. His grip was so hard, he accidentally crushed it to pieces. His face is white with horror as he stares down at the glass shards on the tablecloth.
For a second, no one says anything.
“Excuse me,” he mutters, pushing back his seat and almost running out of the room.
“And,thereit is,” Ellen sighs, watching him go. “It’s been, what, fifteen minutes? If he can’t last that long without breaking my glassware, I don’t see how he can handle a child.” She sits back, crossing her arms over her chest. “If I were you, dear, I’d think seriously about calling the authorities, and informing them of this behaviour. I know it’ll put you out of a job, but it’s what’s right for the child.”
I slowly put my cutlery down, taking a deep breath. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask quietly.
She blinks. “What?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I repeat. “Why would you imply that Sebastian will hurt his baby?”
She sniffs. “Because I know him, dear. I know what he’s like.”
I snap. “Youdon’tknowhim! For his entire teen years, you shipped him away!”
“He was an aggressive child. We couldn’t handle him.”
“You should’ve! You don’t fix pain by ignoring it or beating it out of someone! When a kid is hurt, you don’tpunishhim for it.” I shake my head. “You know, most studies show that behavioural boot camps are actually damaging to young children? Military camps, like the one you sent your son to, focus on physical punishment andforcingcomplete obedience, instead of giving the child the therapy they need to make correct decisions.” She opens her mouth, but I interrupt her. “And I can tell you for a fact, there isnobehavioural correctional residential that would take a kid every holiday for six years straight. If it takes that long, it obviously isn’t working. Which either means that you were paying the programme off, or you sent him to an unregulated camp—in which case, you were putting your son in real danger. Kids havediedat unauthorised behavioural residentials. They’ve been physically, mentally and emotionally abused. But you didn’t care, did you?” I wave around at the walls. “You know what I think? I think you were stuck in a relationship for over a decade, and when you finally got a divorce, you wanted your old life back. You wanted to be single and unattached again. You wanted dates, and parties, and expensive holidays. So you sent your own child away, over and over and over again, just so you could mess around like a woman in her twenties, instead of amotherwith a son whoneeded support.He’d just lost his dad! Of course he was going to be angry! If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be human!”
There’s a footstep in the doorway. Sebastian stands watching me, a dustpan in his hands, his eyes dark. I know I should shut up, but I can’t. I feel like I’m on fire. Back when I was in care, I saw hundreds of children get abandoned by their parents. Parents who’d promise to visit on weekends, but never show. Parents who’d offer to take their kids out on their birthdays, then cancel last minute. Parents who swore they still loved their children, but treated them like inconveniences.
And it’s notfair.
Ellen gapes at me. “Don’t speak to me like that! You havenoidea what he was like—”
I cut her off. “I know that he was a kid, and you punished him for his emotions. You punished him so badly, he’s still scared to feel things. For God’s sake, the man practically had a panic attack when I asked him toburp his baby.You’ve made him believe he’s some kind of a monster, when really,youwere the one treating him like utter shit. Sebastian is aperfectfather to Cami. He’s been adaptable and loving and gentle with her. He’s not a bad parent. The only bad parent here isyou.”
I break off, breathing hard.
No one says anything. Steve and Ellen’s faces are slack. Sebastian is leaning against the doorframe like he needs it to stay upright. In the middle of it all, Cami’s falling asleep with mashed potato all over her cheeks.
As the seconds pass, embarrassment starts to rush through me. What the Hell is wrong with me? This whole trip was about building a relationship between Cami and her grandparents, and I just ruined it. Iruinedit.
My chest suddenly feels too tight. My cheeks are burning. My throat swells. I have to get out of here.
I take a step back, almost tripping when my foot tangles with the leg of my chair. “I. Um. Could you please tell me where your bathroom is?” I croak.
Forty-Three