My phone buzzed across the conference table in the middle of a budget meeting.
At first, I ignored it. Meetings like that weren’t exactly interruption-friendly.
Three seconds later, it rang again.
A heavy, cold feeling settled in my chest before I even looked at the screen. My son Ethan knew he wasn’t supposed to call me during work unless something was seriously wrong.
I answered.
“Hey buddy, what’s going on?”
At first, all I heard were small, broken sobs.
“Daddy… please come home.”
My chair slammed into the wall as I stood up.
“Ethan? What happened? Where’s your mom?”
“She’s not here,” he whispered. “Mom’s boyfriend… Kyle… he hit me with a baseball bat. My arm hurts really bad. He said if I cry, he’ll hurt me more.”
Suddenly a man’s voice roared somewhere behind him.
“Who are you calling? Give me that phone!”
The call cut off.
For a second, the entire room seemed to go silent. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my keys.
I was twenty minutes away, stuck in downtown traffic.
And my four-year-old son was alone with someone who had just hurt him.
The One Person Closer Than Me
I rushed toward the elevator while dialing the only number that came to mind.
My older brother Marcus picked up immediately.
“What’s up?”
“Ethan just called,” I said, breathless. “Lena’s boyfriend hit him with a baseball bat. I’m twenty minutes away. Where are you?”
There was a brief pause.
Then his voice changed.
Marcus used to fight professionally in regional MMA tournaments before a shoulder injury ended his career. I hadn’t heard that tone from him since those days.
“I’m about fifteen minutes from your house,” he said quietly. “Do you want me to go in?”
“Go now,” I said without hesitation. “I’m calling the police.”
“I’m already heading there.”
