Dylan was a menace. There was no other word for it. He was ten years old—more than old enough to understand basic boundaries and consequences—but he had been raised in an environment utterly devoid of either. Nicole treated his aggressive, destructive behavior as quirky “content” or brushed it off with a dismissive wave and a muttered “boys will be boys.” My mother, the matriarch who demanded absolute respect from everyone else, flat-out refused to discipline her only grandson, treating him like a golden prince who could do no wrong.
Suddenly, Dylan sprinted into the living room from the hallway connecting to the garage. He was clutching a dense, heavy, red rubber dodgeball—the kind used in gym classes, designed to sting when it hit you.
He was breathing heavily, a manic, wild look in his eyes.
“Dylan, please don’t throw that in here,” I said automatically, my voice tight with immediate anxiety. I shifted my weight, placing a protective, instinctive hand over the swell of my stomach. “There are too many breakable things, and I don’t want to get hit.”
Dylan stopped dead in his tracks in the center of the living room rug.
He didn’t look at the television. He didn’t look at his mother. He looked directly at my swollen belly, and then slowly raised his eyes to meet my face.
He grinned.
It wasn’t the mischievous, innocent smile of a child playing a game. It was a sharp, calculating, feral expression that belonged on the face of someone much, much older. It was a look that communicated a profound, terrifying lack of empathy.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Dylan, put the ball down,” I repeated, my voice rising slightly in pitch, genuine fear starting to spike my heart rate. I looked toward the armchair. “Nicole, tell him to put it away.”
Nicole didn’t even look up from her screen. She just let out a highly annoyed sigh. “Oh, relax, Emily. He’s just playing. You’re always so incredibly dramatic about everything. He’s not going to hurt you.”
