Saturday mornings were our tradition—pancakes, his dinosaur cup, my burnt toast. I lifted my phone to snap a picture and told him, “Give me a big smile.”

But instead, he raised his hand. Palm up. Trembling.

A bruise on his wrist stopped me cold.

“Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “What happened?”

He said nothing. Just pushed his pancakes around. When I reached for his hand, he flinched.

Then a voice behind me: “Everything alright?”

It was Tom—my ex-husband. He hadn’t seen us in over a year.

I stood protectively. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Just wanted to check in.”

My son avoided his gaze, shrinking in his seat.

“Did you do this?” I asked quietly.

Tom scoffed—then muttered, “He was difficult. I didn’t mean to.”

That was enough. I took our son’s hand and walked out.

Later, after involving the police, I learned Tom’s anger issues had been worsening. But the real twist? His own family testified in court. They’d seen the signs for years but had stayed silent—until now.

Tom was ordered into treatment. And I finally kept my promise: to protect my son, no matter what.