He Left Me for Dead, Now He Begs Me for Mercy

My son Cleo, died in my arms. He was seven. Sweet. Sickly. He called himself “Daddy’s little knight.” But when he needed his father most, Torren was too busy throwing a birthday party…for another woman’s son.

I called from the hospital. But his voice turned cold. “Don’t interrupt us. Therese, if you let your jealousy spiral again, I swear I’ll divorce you.”

So I stayed by Cleo’s side alone. Held his hand as it turned cold. Sang lullabies while the machines flatlined and whispered, “It’s okay to go now, baby,” as I felt his last breath leave him.