The woman squeezes my hand again, her gaze steady. “It doesn’t matter if he’s just upset,” she says, as if reading my thoughts. “What he said—what he threatened—is not normal. It’s not okay.”
I nod numbly, but my mind is spinning, tangled in the cycle of justifications I’ve built to protect myself from the truth.
He’ll calm down. He always does.
He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have meant it.
I’ll call him later, and we’ll sort this out. It’ll all blow over.
But deep down, I know I’m lying to myself.She’s right. This isn’t normal. This isn’t okay.
And the scariest part is that I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending it is.
I hug my arms around myself, trying to hold everything in—trying not to shatter completely in front of these people.
“You don’t deserve this,” the woman whispers, her voice soft but firm. “No one deserves this.”
I nod again, more out of politeness than agreement. The words don’t feel real yet. I feel like I’m floating, untethered, unable to process what just happened.
But one thought cuts through the fog, sharp and clear—I need to get home. I need to get Sabre. Whatever happens next, I have to make sure my baby is safe.
The others exchange concerned glances, and I can feel the weight of their worry pressing down on me. But for now, all I can focus on is getting through the next hour, the next minute, the next breath.
Because right now, that’s all I can do.
My phone buzzes violently in my hand. The screen fills with messages from Timmy—one after another, each one more twisted and hateful than the last. It’s like watching a dam break, and I can’t stop the flood.
Timmy:
You’re so fucking dumb. This truck’s not gonna go much further, and you’re... it’s going to get fucking ripped.
You’re just... you’re just dumb and... collect your baby 14-year-old. You’re so fucking retarded.
You’re still the dumbest fucking retarded person I’ve ever fucking known.
The most abusive, punching, pinching, fucking twisted, fucking a 14-year-old.
You’re just a fucking retarded cunt.
You’re a stupid fucking whore thank you bye.
I can only imagine you’re happy bc you’re fucking around with your 14-year-old.
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding so loudly I can barely hear myself think. The words don’t even make sense—they’re jumbled, manic, incoherent—but the anger behind them is unmistakable.
The accusation about Jackson sends a shiver down my spine. Why is he fixated on this disgusting idea? I’ve been nothing but clear, and the accusation is beyond repulsive. The fact that he’s hurling such vile things at me... it’s more than just an insult. It’s cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Or he’s just so sick and twisted he actually believes his own story.
My fingers tremble as I respond.
Me:
That’s gross. I’m actually with his mum.
His reply comes instantly, the rage boiling over in his words.
Timmy:
Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.