Austin lunged toward me, but an officer restrained him before he could get close.
“Summer, I’m your brother!” he shouted.
“No,” I replied. “You’re the man who stole two years of my life.”
My mother collapsed onto her knees, sobbing.
“How could you do this to your own family?”
I looked at her for the final time.
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“You were the one who taught me that family isn’t defined by blood,” I said. “Family is the one that stands beside you when everyone else is pointing fingers. Today, I’m protecting innocent people from you.”
The officers led them away in handcuffs while they cried, shouted, and pleaded. After the front door closed, I stared at the table covered with expensive food and half-finished drinks. That night I realized justice has no sweet flavor.
Sometimes it tastes only like cold meals and complete silence.
