Sins of the Father

ELIZA

Something is wrong with Homer.

I don’t realize it all at once. It doesn’t announce itself with sirens or dread. It creeps in quietly, through absence. Through the spaces he usually fills without effort. Through the way my phone stays stubbornly silent on the counter, its black screen reflecting the ceiling light every time I glance at it.

Homer doesn’t answer on Friday.

I tell myself that’s fine. He’s late more often than he’s punctual. He forgets plans. He double-books himself. But he always calls. Always texts. He never leaves me guessing.

By Friday afternoon, when he doesn’t show up to take Liam to soccer tryouts, the air in my chest starts to feel thick. I stand on the sidewalk outside the field with my hand wrapped around my son’s smaller one, the smell of cut grass and sunscreen heavy in the air, listening to the shrill whistle of a coach I don’t know.

“Homer’s running late,” I tell Liam.

I believe it. Or I try to.

By the time we leave, the sun is low and orange and my phone is still quiet. I can taste anxiety now—metallic, sharp, coating the back of my tongue.

Saturday morning comes without the knock I expect.

No coffee. No cartoons. No Homer slouched on my couch, feet on the coffee table, loudly critiquing whatever animated animal Liam is obsessed with this week. The apartment smells wrong without him—too clean, too still. Even the hum of the refrigerator feels louder.

That’s when the unease settles in my stomach and refuses to move.

Sunday arrives, and Liam is quiet. After three days of absence from Homer, Liam’s quiet is different.

Not the soft, absorbed quiet he gets when he’s lining his toys up just right, or when he’s focused on something important only to him. This is heavier. The kind of quiet that presses. The kind that mirrors disappointment too closely for a three-year-old.

It scares me how well he understands absence.

I tell myself that’s irrational. He’s never met his father. He’s never known another parent. He shouldn’t be able to imitate loss like this.

But sometimes he looks up at me with that sharp, watchful gaze and my chest tightens. Sometimes he gets possessive over his toys, aggressive in flashes that I chalk up to normal only-child behavior.

I need it to be normal.

Because if he doesn’t just look like his father—but acts like him—I don’t know what that says about what’s in his blood.

Liam pads into the kitchen already dressed in his dobok, bare feet slapping softly against the tile. His stuffed sloth, Coco, drags behind him, one button eye scraping faintly along the floor. His blond brows pinch together as he looks around like he’s searching for something.

“Homer?” he asks.

The word lands heavily in my chest.

I crouch down in front of him with a slice of apple, using it as a peace offering, the juice already sticky on my fingers. My throat tightens anyway. Disappointing my son feels like swallowing glass. Not because I think I’ve failed him—but because I work so hard not to.

“I don’t think Homer’s coming over today, bub,” I say carefully.

His shoulders droop, his small body folding in on itself, and every muscle in my own body goes rigid.

I’m going to kill Homer Georges the second I see him.

But first, I’m going to take my son to the park, buy him the biggest fucking taiyaki I can find, and kick a ball around until he forgets why he was sad. Screw Taekwondo.

“Hey,” I say, lowering myself onto the floor and pulling him into my arms. His hair smells like shampoo and something faintly sweet. “You and I can go to the park ourselves, right? We can even skip taekwondo.”

He chews his apple thoughtfully, juice running down his chin, then crawls into my lap and cups my cheeks with both hands like he’s steadying me instead.

“Taekwondo,” he decides solemnly.

“Taekwondo then, mommy.”

I laugh despite myself and fall back onto the kitchen floor with him. He squeals, arms tightening around my neck, his laughter warm and bright against my ear. For a moment, the weight in my chest eases.

Taekwondo was Homer’s idea. He’d insisted Liam should know how to protect himself—just in case. I’d agreed faster than I meant to. Homer doesn’t know who Liam’s father is. Or if he does, he’s never said it aloud. But I know one thing about him for sure.

He’s loyal.

When we first met, he scared me. Tall. Tattooed. All sharp edges and bad vibes. But then he helped me up two flights of stairs at eight months pregnant while I cried over The Little Mermaid with a mouthful of peanut butter and pickles. He held my hand while I screamed through labor. He was the first person besides me to hold Liam.

Second only to my brother Ezra.

The park stretches long into the evening. By the time we head home, my legs ache and Liam is warm and sleepy against my side. The hallway lights in our apartment building flicker faintly, buzzing overhead as we walk.

Liam tugs me past our door.

Toward Homer’s.

The door is ajar.

My blood goes cold.

The handle hangs wrong. The lock is twisted, metal bent at an unnatural angle. My heart begins to pound so hard I can hear it in my ears. Every instinct screams run, but my mind floods with worst-case scenarios.

For one terrifying second, I think Homer is dead.

“Homer,” Liam whispers, wriggling toward the doorway.

I grab him around the waist on reflex and flip him so his legs wrap around me. His hands clutch my shirt, fingers digging in.

“Stop it,” I murmur, my voice barely more than breath.

I nudge the door open with the toe of my shoe.

Something flutters down.

A piece of paper.

I recognize immediately that it’s meant for me.

Bring the kid.

There’s an address. A date.

Yesterday.

The apartment is destroyed. The couch is sliced open, foam spilling like exposed bone. The TV screen is shattered, glass glittering on the floor. The kitchen looks like a storm passed through it. The air smells sharp and wrong—metal and old blood and something sour.

I scoop Liam up and run.

Back to our apartment. My grip on him is too tight. I kiss the side of his head again and again, murmuring nonsense until he stops whimpering.

I grab the duffle bag. I’ve always feared this day would come.

I just didn’t think it would come like this.

Someone found out about Liam. Someone took Homer and hurt him until the truth spilled out. And now there’s only one thing left to do.

I pack fast. Clothes. Coco. Shoes. Essentials. My hands shake the entire time.

By the time we’re on the first train heading toward what will almost certainly be my doom, my heart hasn’t slowed once.

The train smells like oil and metal and strangers. Liam curls against me, warm and solid, his fingers tangled in my jacket.

It’s time to tell his father.