Carol looks down at Eli.
He’s suddenly very interested in his shoes.
“Eli,” she says, sharp with panic now. “Apologize.”
He shrugs. “For what?”
The sound Boone makes then is low and dangerous.
But he doesn’t speak.
Carol squeezes her eyes shut for a beat, then opens them again, jaw set.
“For what you said,” she snaps. “To Sadie.”
Eli scowls. “I was just saying?—”
“No,” Carol cuts in. “You were being mean.”
The word hangs there.
Mean.
She turns fully toward Sadie, then drops to a crouch, putting herself at eye level.
“I’m sorry,” she says, this time quieter, stripped of performance. “What my son said was wrong. Families don’t all look the same. And… and I shouldn’t have allowed that idea to exist.”
Boone’s hand tightens on Sadie’s shoulder.
Sadie doesn’t respond.
She’s watching Carol the way kids do when they’re trying to decide if an adult is safe again.
Carol swallows hard. “Eli,” she says again. “Now.”
He kicks the gravel once, then mutters, “Sorry.”
Boone doesn’t let it stand.
“Try again,” he says calmly.
Eli’s head snaps up. “What?”
“You don’t apologize like it’s a punishment,” Boone continues. “You apologize because you understand why what you did was wrong.”
Carol inhales sharply, then nods. “He’s right.”
Eli looks at his mom as if he doesn’t recognize her.
She doesn’t look away.
“He told you to try again,” she repeats.
He sighs dramatically, but there’s fear under it now. Real fear.
“I’m sorry,” he says louder. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was mean.”
Sadie’s fingers curl into Boone’s jacket.
