CHAPTER 4: BROKEN OR HAPPY
The front door clicked shut behind him, and Micheal dropped his bag onto the hallway floor with a thud that seemed louder than usual. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when someone unexpected is already there.
He turned the corner into the kitchen and froze. Detective Amanda—his mother—stood at the stove, a mug of coffee steaming in her hand. Her badge glinted faintly under the overhead light, and for a split second the uniform she wore at the precinct seemed to melt away, leaving just the woman who had raised him.
"Micheal," she said, her voice even but edged with something he couldn't place. "You look… bruised."
He swallowed, feeling the sting of his knuckles, the ache in his ribs. "Mom, I—"
She set the mug down, eyes scanning his face, his shoulders, the faint red mark on his jaw. "You fought someone. Again." It wasn't a question.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "It was… it was Teema's ex. He was… he was hurting her. I couldn't just stand there."
Amanda's expression hardened for a heartbeat, then softened. "You always have to be the protector, don't you? Even when it means getting into trouble." She took a step closer, the scent of coffee mixing with the faint smell of burnt toast. "I know about Teema. I've seen the way you look at her. It's… madness, not love."
The words hit him like a cold gust. "Madness? You think this is a joke?" He felt his anger flare, hot and sharp. "You're never here! You lock yourself in that precinct, disappear for weeks, and when you finally show up it's because Raymond's coming back? You think I don't see how you've been… you've been gone since Dad died. You remarried a year and a half later and now it's all about Raymond. Lizzy's never home, Emma's always at some club or another, and Gift… Gift barely says a word anymore. It's all because you chose work… or Raymond. When was the last time we even had dinner together?"
Amanda's eyes flickered, a flash of pain crossing her features before she steadied herself. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't see the way you all have been drifting? I'm trying to keep this family afloat. I'm trying to give you all something stable after everything we lost."
"Stable?" Micheal laughed, a harsh sound. "Stable is a lie you tell yourself. You're never here. It's always 'the case' or 'Raymond's schedule.' You took a day off because Raymond's returning, not because you wanted to be with us. We're just… we're just a footnote in your life now."
She took a breath, her voice low but firm. "If you're all so unhappy, then leave. No one's forcing you to stay. But I won't let my happiness be jeopardized because you're angry at a past I can't change. Your father would have wanted us to move forward, not wallow in resentment."
Micheal stared at her, the disappointment in his eyes a mirror of the hurt that had been building for years.
The kitchen lights flickered once, as if the house itself were taking a breath before the storm. Raymond stood rooted to the tile, the weight of his bruised knuckles suddenly feeling like a badge he didn't want to wear. His mother, Amanda, leaned against the counter, her badge catching the light, the coffee mug now forgotten on the table.
"Micheal," she began, her voice steadier than she felt, "you can't keep doing this. You're going to get yourself hurt—or worse." She reached out, fingers hovering just above his arm, then pulling back as if the contact might shatter the fragile veneer of control she kept around herself.
He swallowed, the taste of metal and adrenaline still fresh. "You think I don't know that? You think I wanted to be the guy who gets his face smashed on a rooftop because some asshole decided to hurt Teema?" His words came out ragged, each syllable a punch to the air. "You see the bruises, Mom. You see the cut on my jaw. You see the way my shirt is torn. But you don't see the reason. You don't see the way she looked—like the world had just ripped the floor out from under her. I couldn't just stand there and watch her fall."
Amanda's eyes flickered, a flash of the mother she tried to hide behind the badge. "I see it, Micheal. I see it because I've been watching you. I've seen the way you stare at Teema when you think no one's looking. The way you laugh a little louder when she's around, as if you're trying to fill a space that's been empty for years." She took a step forward, the distance between them shrinking. "But this—this isn't love. It's obsession. It's a reckless need to fix something you can't fix. You're throwing yourself into danger for a girl who doesn't even know how you feel."
A bitter laugh escaped Micheal, sharp and humorless. "Madness, you call it? You think I'm the crazy one? You're the one who disappeared for weeks, months, chasing ghosts of a case that never ends. You left us to pick up the pieces after Dad died, and then you came back with Raymond like nothing ever happened. You remarried a year and a half later, and suddenly the house is filled with his things, his schedule, his priorities. We're just… we're just background noise to you."
Amanda's jaw tightened, the lines around her eyes deepening. "You think I wanted that? You think I wanted to lose your father and then have to watch my family fall apart? I was a detective because I needed to find something solid in a world that kept pulling the rug out from under me. I thought if I could keep us safe, keep us fed, maybe the emptiness would fade. Raymond… Raymond is a part of my life now, but he is not the reason I'm gone. It's the job. It's the cases that never end. It's the feeling that if I stop, everything collapses."
Micheal's voice rose, raw with years of suppressed grief. "You talk about collapsing? Look at us! Lizzy's never home. She's always in some lecture hall, some internship, anything to avoid coming back to this house. Emma's drowning in clubs, sports, volunteer work—she's trying to fill the silence with noise. And Gift… Gift barely says a word anymore. She's a ghost in her own home. And you… you're never there. It's always 'the case' or 'Raymond's schedule.' When was the last time we sat down for dinner without a phone on the table? When was the last time you asked me how my day was, not about the fight I got into?"
Amanda's shoulders shook, a single tear escaping to trace a line down her cheek. "I'm sorry, Micheal. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I let my grief drive me to a place where I thought work could fill the void. But you can't keep blaming me for everything. You're an adult now. You make choices. You chose to go after Teema's ex. You chose to keep this secret. You can't keep using my absence as an excuse for every bad decision you make."
Micheal's fists clenched, the knuckles white. "You think I'm using you as an excuse? You think I'm not hurting because of you? I watched you walk away from Dad's grave, from our family, and I thought maybe if I could be the one who protects someone, I could make up for the fact that I couldn't protect him. I thought maybe if I could keep Teema safe, I could finally feel like I'm worth something. But you… you just keep pulling away. You say you're trying to keep us safe, but you're killing us with your absence."
Silence settled, heavy and suffocating. Micheal stared at her son, the boy who had grown into a man before her eyes, his eyes burning with a mixture of anger, hurt, and a desperate longing for the mother he once knew. She took a shaky breath, the words she wanted to say tangled with the years of unsaid things.
"If you're so unhappy here, Micheal, then leave," she whispered, voice cracking. "Find a place where you can be yourself without the weight of my mistakes. I won't stand in the way of your happiness, even if it means losing you to a life I can't control. But don't you dare blame me for the choices you make now. I've given you everything I could, even when I was broken."
Micheal stared at her, the disappointment in his gaze turning into something colder, more distant. He felt the ache in his chest, not just from the fight, but from the realization that the woman who was supposed to be his anchor had become another storm he couldn't navigate.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, the kitchen chair scraping against the floor. He walked toward the stairs, each step echoing like a drumbeat of finality. As he reached the top, he paused, hand on the railing, and looked back once more. Lena stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light, her shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had finally settled onto them.
Micheal's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry we both lost ourselves." He pushed the door to his room open, the click of the latch a soft, final punctuation to the argument that had shattered the fragile peace they had been trying to hold onto. The room beyond was dark, but for the first time in a long while, Micheal felt a strange sort of clarity—a cold resolve that maybe, just maybe, the only way to protect the people he loved was to step away from the chaos and find his own path, even if it meant leaving the home he had known behind.