Chapter 3
Doreen didn't go quietly.
She filed for divorce three days later. She wanted the house. Half my savings. Spousal support. And she filed a police report — about the slap. Domestic assault, she called it. She had a photograph of her red cheek. She had a witness — Tyler, coached and terrified.
The police came to my door. Two officers. They looked at Chloe, who was coloring at the kitchen table, and then at me.
"Mr. Stallone," the older one said. "We have a report of domestic violence. We need to ask you some questions."
I didn't run. I didn't lie. I told them everything. The slap. The milk. Chloe's confession. The closet. The bruises. I showed them the photographs. I gave them the name of my lawyer.
The officers looked at each other. The younger one's jaw tightened.
"Sir," the older one said. "The slap — we'll have to pursue that. You understand. But the allegations against your wife — we take those very seriously. We'll have a social worker contact you."
They left. I sat down at the kitchen table across from Chloe. She'd stopped coloring. She was watching me, her crayon held mid-air.
"Daddy," she said. "Are you in trouble?"
I reached across the table and took her hand. "A little, baby. But it's okay. Daddy made a mistake, and he's going to take responsibility for it. But you — you didn't do anything wrong. None of this is your fault."
She nodded, but I could see the worry in her eyes.
The social worker came the next day. Her name was Lorraine. She was in her fifties, with kind eyes and a firm handshake. She talked to Chloe alone for forty minutes. When she came out, her face was pale.
"Mr. Stallone," she said. "I'm recommending that Doreen Carter have no contact with Chloe pending investigation. And I'm recommending Tyler be removed from her care as well."
I blinked. "Tyler? Why?"
"Because he's a victim too, Mr. Stallone. A child who's been taught that cruelty is acceptable. A child who's been coached to lie. If what Chloe says is true — and I believe it is — Tyler has been living in an environment of abuse. He needs help. Not punishment."
I thought about Tyler. The boy who'd thrown the glass. The boy who'd looked uncertain when his mother couldn't protect him.
"He's nine," I said. "He's a kid."
"He is," Lorraine said. "And he deserves better than the mother he's got."
Doreen was arrested a week later. Child abuse. Child endangerment. Neglect. The evidence was overwhelming — Chloe's testimony, the photographs, the closet, neighbors who'd heard screaming, text messages where Doreen had complained about Chloe to her friends.
Tyler was placed in foster care.
I stood in my empty kitchen and thought about that boy. He'd thrown milk at my daughter. He'd hit her. He'd called her names. But he was nine. And his mother had taught him every bit of it.
I called Lorraine. "Can I see Tyler?" I asked.
She was quiet. "You want to see the boy who abused your daughter?"
"I want to talk to him. He's a kid. He's scared. And if nobody reaches him now, he's going to grow up to be just like his mother."
Lorraine arranged it. I met Tyler at a foster center. He was small for nine. Thin. His eyes were red. He wouldn't look at me.
"Tyler," I said. I sat across from him. I didn't touch him. I didn't raise my voice. "I'm not here to yell at you. I'm not here to blame you. I'm here because I think you've been taught wrong. And I think you know it."
He looked up. His lip trembled.
"She told me to," he whispered. "She said if I didn't, she'd hurt me too."
I closed my eyes. Of course.
"Tyler," I said. "What you did to Chloe was wrong. You know that. But you were a kid being told what to do by the person who was supposed to protect you. That's not an excuse. But it's a reason. And I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you. Because you deserved better."
He started crying. Big, heaving sobs. I sat there and let him cry. When he finished, he looked at me with red, swollen eyes.
"Can I say sorry to Chloe?" he asked.
"Not yet," I said. "But someday. If she wants that. Someday."
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I left that center with a heavy heart. Two children. Both victims. One I'd saved. One I wasn't sure I could.
But I had to try.
