Part 3My Friends Always Said I Treated Him Too Well

"Last winter, on that crowded downtown street. A red car blocked the lane, and you literally used your truck to ram it out of the way. The car alarms, the crowds screaming, me begging you to stop. I asked you, 'Carter, can you please just listen to me for once?' Do you remember what you said?"

"What is your point?"

"You said, 'No!'"

Carter's face looked dreadful.

He had always been like this—a violent temper, explosive at the slightest spark.

I was furious with him that day.

At first, I tried to pull him back.

"Don't do this, I'll call a tow truck. Let someone else handle it."

He didn't listen. He just kept inching his truck forward, crushing the bumper.

"Carter, that's enough!"

He stepped on the gas.

A crowd gathered. People were pulling out their phones to record. Someone was calling the cops.

I grabbed his arm, my eyes welling with frustrated tears.

"Can you please just listen to me, just this once?"

He stared straight ahead, completely deadpan. "No!"

That was the kind of man he was.

Yet Mia typed one sentence: [Carter, be a good boy.]

And he immediately bowed his head.