When Cade’s mother died, she left behind three newborn boys.
Triplets.
Three tiny lives that had barely learned how to breathe on their own. They still smelled like hospital blankets and antiseptic plastic bassinets.
And suddenly, they were his responsibility.
Cade was only eighteen.
Now he is twenty-nine, but the moment everything changed is still carved into his memory with brutal clarity.
Their father had always been around just long enough to cause damage.
Never long enough to be a father.
When Cade was a teenager, his father treated him like a joke in front of anyone who would listen. Cade dressed in black, listened to music his father didn’t understand, sometimes painted his nails.
That was enough to make him a target.
“What are you, a goth?” his father once shouted across the living room, pointing at Cade’s hoodie.
Cade stayed quiet.
“Not a son,” the man laughed, leaning back in his chair.
“A shadow.”
His mother always stepped in.
“That’s enough, James,” she would say sharply. “He is your son.”
His father would shrug and grin like it was all harmless teasing.
“I’m just messing with him. Relax.”
But Cade knew the pattern.
His father needed someone to tear down in order to feel bigger. And Cade had become the easiest target.
Leave a Comment