Chapter 1
Had you ever seen a five-year-old stare at his own mother with lifeless eyes, as if all the light in his soul had gone out?
On the day of the kindergarten stampede, my wife herself pried our son's fingers off her hand.
Not out of panic.
But because, just three meters away, there was a child she was more desperate to save.
When I finally pulled my son out from the pile of bodies, his face was smeared with blood, but he didn't cry.
He just stared at me with those dead, empty eyes and quietly said, "Dad, let's go. Let's find a place where Mom will never find us."
Five years old.
He was only five years old.
Later, I found out that the "other people's daughter" my wife had risked everything to protect was never really someone else's kid.
So, what did you think back then? When a man realized he had been nothing but a tool for five years, should he have started smashing things, or just poured himself a drink first?
*****
The fastest I've ever run in my life wasn't for a college entrance exam, or to catch the last subway.
It was when the preschool teacher called me.
"Mr. Turner! There's been a stampede at the preschool! You need to get here now!"
The other end was a mess of crying and screaming, total chaos.
My mind was buzzing.
I nearly crushed my phone in my hand.
It usually took twenty-five minutes to drive from my office to Green Sprout Preschool.
I made it in twelve.
I ran three red lights.
When I got there, two ambulances were already parked outside Green Sprout Preschool.
Parents were storming inside in a frenzy, and the security guards didn't stand a chance.
When I finally squeezed my way in, the scene I saw was something I'd never forget.
The hallway was packed with kids sprawled across the floor.
Some were crying, others were completely still.
Backpacks, water bottles, and shoes were scattered everywhere.
My wife Emily Foster had gotten there before me.
She was a stay-at-home mom, and the preschool was just a five-minute walk from our place.
By all rights, she should've been the first to rush over and protect our son Andy Turner.
But I didn't see Emily and Andy together anywhere in the crowd.
I was screaming like a madman, "Andy! Andy!"
No one answered.
I searched from the end of the hallway all the way to the stairwell.
Then I saw Andy.
He was curled up in the corner, with several dirty footprints stamped all over him.
His face was smeared with blood.
His eyes were closed.
It was like my soul had been sucked out of me. I rushed over and scooped him up into my arms.
"Andy! Andy, wake up! Dad's here!" I yelled.
His little body was limp, like he had no bones at all.
I ran out with him in my arms, yelling for an ambulance as I went.
When I got to the entrance, I saw Emily.
She was holding a little girl with pigtails, gently trying to calm her down.
The girl was sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, and Emily was softly patting her back, whispering, "Don't be scared, Auntie's here. I'm right here."
The way she looked at that girl, the way she spoke, so gentle, it was like she was a completely different person.
She'd never, not once, spoken to our son in that gentle way.
Never.
Andy was covered in blood in my arms, while the little girl she was holding was completely unharmed.
I couldn't waste time on this.
I hurriedly put Andy into the ambulance and went with him to the hospital.
Luckily, it was just some minor injuries and a mild concussion.
The doctor said Andy had been stepped on a few times, but there were no serious injuries. He just needed to be kept under observation for a couple of days.
I sat by his hospital bed, staring at Andy's pale little face, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
*****
At eight o'clock that night, Andy finally woke up.
He opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling in confusion, then slowly turned his head toward me.
"Dad," he called out.
"Hey, Dad's right here," I said, hurrying over. "Does anything hurt? Do you want some water?"
He didn't answer.
He just stared at me.
His eyes were calm, way too calm for a five-year-old.
That kind of calm sent a chill down my spine.
"Dad," he called out again.
"Yeah, Dad's right here," I said.
"Mom shook off my hand," he said.
It felt like someone had grabbed my heart and squeezed it tight.
"When those people were trampling over me, I was holding Mom's hand," Andy whispered, his voice barely a whisper, as if he were talking about someone else, not himself. "But Mom pulled my hand away. She went to hold that little girl instead."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"I called her," Andy went on, his voice barely above a whisper. "I called her 'Mom' over and over. But she never even looked back."
At that moment, I felt something inside me just break apart.
Not just a crack.
It was crushed to dust.
"Dad," Andy said, looking at me, even managing a faint smile, like he was the one trying to comfort me. "I want to go with you. Let's leave Mom behind. Let's find a place where she'll never be able to find us.
"Is that okay?"
A five-year-old actually saying that?
What did that even mean?
It meant he had totally lost faith in her.
It wasn't just today.
It was all those times he'd been ignored, left out in the cold, and brushed aside. Today, that was the last straw.
I pulled him into my arms.
He was so small, so light, like a little bird that might just fly away and disappear.
"Okay," I said.
"I promise you."