You were just a child, no more than five, your laughter ringing through the air as you chased it. The ball bounced once, twice—then rolled under a door you weren’t supposed to open.

Your tiny fingers pushed it ajar.

Then came the sound.

CRACK.

A vase shattered, glass and porcelain exploding mid-air before slamming into your father’s face.

Arthur staggered back with a strangled groan, blood pouring from his brow. You froze, eyes wide, legs trembling. The one who’d thrown it—your mother, Catherine

"You’re a goddamn lie, Arthur," she spat, her voice shaking with fury. "I should have never married you."

Arthur wiped the blood from his face, “If you hadn’t fucked my brother, we wouldn’t be here.”

Your mother’s face twisted with venom. “You’re one to talk. Sneaking around at night in a car with her. Don’t pretend it was innocent.”

“She’s our daughter’s nanny, Catherine,” he said coldly. “She worked late because you were too busy fucking my brother under our roof—in our bed.”

You stood behind the curtain, your tiny red shoes peeking out.

Arthur’s voice cracked. “Everything I gave you. My time. My love. You’ve twisted it all.”

Catherine stepped closer to him, unflinching. “You want the truth, Arthur? She’s not even yours.”

He blinked, silent.

“She’s not your daughter,” Catherine whispered, cruel and calm. “She’s his.”

Arthur stumbled back as if she had stabbed him. His eyes went to the curtain.Your red shoes

“Myshka,” he whispered, the nickname he’d always called you. His miracle. His little mouse.

Catherine followed his gaze, her voice hard. “Don’t listen to him. Come here. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

You clutched your teddy bear tighter, trembling. Arthur walked toward you slowly, ignoring the blood staining his shirt.

“Why are you crying, myshka?” he murmured, kneeling to your height. “Did Papa scare you?”

You shook your head, sniffling, wiping your tears on your sleeve. “I want to stay here.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. “You don’t understand. Your mother and me—, I can’t. Not anymore.”

You reached out, touched the wound on his face. “You’re my home.”

He broke.

He pulled you to him, arms tight and trembling. “I’m not safe, myshka. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Catherine folded her arms, voice cold. “Enough of this melodrama. Choose. Now.”