The Wrong Road to a Perfect Revenge

Summary

I was poking my son’s chubby cheeks, the smell of blueberry pancakes still lingering in the kitchen, when I asked that cliché, hypothetical question.

"Hey, Mark? If the car went into a lake and you could only pull one of us out—me or the kid—who’s it gonna be?"

Mark didn’t even look up from his coffee. "You. Always you."

Our son, Toby, puffed out his chest. I expected a toddler tantrum, but he just looked at me with those big, serious eyes. "It’s okay, Mommy. I’m a good swimmer. I’ll save you myself."

Three hours later, the world fell apart.