Part 2The Baby Who Remembered Murder

The moment the question hung in the air, my father's quiet weeping stopped.

My mother's hand hovered over her teacup.

All eyes in the room landed on me.

I looked at my father.

"Because he's not my real dad," I said. "My real dad didn't look like him."

My father's face drained of color.

It was only for a fraction of a second before his wounded, pitying expression returned. He shook his head. "This boy... I honestly don't know what to do with him anymore."

Mr. Burke finished packing up his briefcase and said they would head back to verify the information.

The silver-haired man was the last to leave. He paused at the doorway, turning back to give me a long, searching look. It felt like he was trying to see right through me, searching for something hidden deep beneath the surface. But he didn't say anything.

The second the front door clicked shut, my father grabbed my arm, dragging me down the hallway and throwing me into the bathroom.

The light flickered off.

The door locked from the outside.

In the pitch black, his muffled voice drifted through the wood. "Say one more word like that, and you're sleeping on the floor in there tonight."

I sat on the tile, leaning against the base of the toilet. I didn't cry. I was used to the dark.

But my mind kept returning to that old man's eyes. He was different from the others. Others looked at me like I was a broken toy. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

Since I was three, my father had been building this narrative.

The first time was in preschool. When a toy got broken and the teacher asked who did it, I said it wasn't me. My father was called in. In front of the teacher, he pinched my cheek hard and said, "Don't believe a word he says, Ms. Davis. He's a pathological liar." I cried, protesting my innocence, but he pinched me again, laughing it off. "See? There he goes again."

The second time was Mr. Peterson. He saw the dark purple bruise on my father's thigh and asked about it. I told him Mom had done it. My father laughed, blamed the doorframe, and later cornered me. He squeezed my thigh until I whimpered. "Speak up again, and I'll sew your mouth shut."

After Mr. Peterson left, he locked me in the bathroom for the entire afternoon.

From then on, I never spoke of Mom hitting him again.

But my father didn't stop. He made sure to warn everyone about my "condition." Teachers, neighbors, relatives. Every time someone looked at me, there was a strange, pitying skepticism in their eyes. That's the dishonest boy.

When I was three, Grandpa Hank asked me, "Is your dad good to you, Tobes?"

I said no. "He's not my real dad."

My father shook his head sadly. "I told you, Hank. The boy can't help himself."

Grandpa Hank sighed, patted my head, and left.

At four, I told him again. This time, Grandpa Hank didn't even sigh. He just looked at me with a profound, aching pity. Not because he thought I was being abused, but because he thought I was mentally ill.

On my fifth birthday, I blew out my candles and made a wish. I wished for just one person to believe me. Just one.

But nobody did.

They all believed him. He knew how to play the victim, how to cry, how to wrap his arms around me in public and whisper, "The poor kid was just born a little off."

And all I could do was repeat the same phrase over and over: "He's not my real dad."

Like a broken toy that only knew one line.