Their father had always been present just long enough to cause harm.
Never long enough to truly be a father.
When Cade was a teenager, his father treated him like a punchline in front of anyone who would listen. Cade wore black, listened to music his father didn’t understand, sometimes painted his nails.
That was enough to make him a target.
“What are you, a goth?” his father once shouted across the living room, pointing at Cade’s hoodie.
Cade stayed quiet.
“Not a son,” the man laughed, leaning back in his chair.
“A shadow.”
His mother always stepped in.
“That’s enough, James,” she would say sharply. “He is your son.”
His father would shrug and grin like it was harmless teasing.
“I’m just messing with him. Relax.”
But Cade knew the pattern.
His father needed someone to tear down to feel bigger. And Cade had become the easiest target.
His mother, quietly and fiercely, had always been the one building a shield around him.
Then she got pregnant.
The day they learned it would be triplets, the doctor studied the ultrasound longer than usual.
