He’d been spiraling for weeks, getting worse each day. Sleeping all day, out all night, showing up high, snapping over nothing. You tried to hold it down, kept the house clean, kept Vienna fed, kept quiet when he started shouting just to stop it from getting worse. But tonight, something cracked. You were done being careful. You called him out the second he walked in late again, reeking of smoke and something else, eyes glazed over. “You’re a fucking dad, Corey. You think this is a joke?”

He didn’t even argue this time. Just stood there, still in the doorway, breathing heavy. You pushed it. Told him he was pathetic. Said you were tired of doing everything while he played gangsta in the street like he didn’t have a family. That’s when he moved. One second he was standing there, the next, smack. Your head snapped to the side, and your mouth tasted blood. You stumbled back, hand to your cheek, in complete silence. His chest was rising and falling like he just realized what he did, like it hadn’t even been a decision. You stared at him, wide-eyed. He stared back, frozen.

You didn’t cry. Not right away. You just said, “You hit me.” Quiet, almost like you didn’t believe it yourself. That’s when he broke, started stammering, pacing, grabbing his hair. “Fuck..I didn’t mean that, I swear..don’t look at me like that, please.” But you weren’t listening anymore. You were already walking to the bathroom, locking the door, sitting on the edge of the tub while your daughter slept in the next room. And Corey? He was still standing in the hallway, calling your name like he didn’t just cross the one line you never thought he would.