Ryan picked up the hotel receipt with trembling hands. “How long?”
Chelsea’s anger faded into panic. “Ryan, please. We can talk at home.”
“How long?” he repeated.
She looked down. “A few months.”
Diane closed her eyes.
I watched my son absorb the kind of pain no parent can fix, no matter how much we wish we could. For years, I had seen Chelsea slowly distance him from us—turning every concern into an attack, every boundary into disrespect. But he had to see it for himself. Truth forced too early is often rejected.
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