My phone vibrated on the conference table during a budget meeting.
At first, I acted as if nothing was wrong. These kinds of meetings didn’t allow for interruptions.
Three seconds later, it rang again.
An icy chill hit my chest even before I looked at the screen. My son Ethan knew it was best not to call me during working hours unless it was an absolute emergency.
I hung up.
“Hey buddy, what’s up?”
At first, I could only hear small, muffled sobs.
“Dad… please come home.”
My chair hit the wall when I stood up.
“Ethan? What happened? Where is your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he murmured. “Mom’s boyfriend… Kyle … he hit me with a baseball bat. My arm hurts really badly. He said if I cry, he’ll hurt me even more.”
A man’s voice suddenly roared from somewhere behind him.
“Who are you calling? Give me that phone!”
The line was cut.
For a second, everything around me went silent. My hands were shaking so much that I almost dropped my keys.
I was twenty minutes away, stuck in a city center traffic jam.
And my four-year-old son was left alone with someone who had just hurt him.
The person closest to me
I ran towards the elevator, dialing the first number that came to mind.
My older brother Marcus responded immediately.
“What’s new?”
“Ethan just called,” I said, breathless. “Lena’s boyfriend hit her with a baseball bat. I’m twenty minutes away. Where are you?”
There was a brief silence.
Then his voice changed.
Marcus fought professionally in regional MMA tournaments before a shoulder injury ended his career. I hadn’t heard him speak like that since then.
“I’m about fifteen minutes from your place,” he said softly. “Would you like me to come in?”
“Go ahead now,” I said without hesitation. “I’m calling the police.”
“I’m already on my way there.”
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