I honestly don’t even know how to explain the kind of silence that filled the kitchen that night.Not the peaceful kind.The kind that presses against your chest until breathing feels difficult.My stepson, Ryan, sat at the counter while I dabbed antiseptic onto the cut near his eyebrow. He winced but didn’t pull away. His hoodie sleeve was torn, and br:uises were already darkening across his arm.“Hold still,” I whispered.