One of the officers, a veteran with a weary face, cleared his throat. “Ma’am, is what you’re saying true? This man is your son and was here with your knowledge?” His tone was careful, procedural, but his grip on Dylan’s arm had visibly relaxed.
“Yes,” Sabrina said, drawing herself up. “He wasn’t breaking in. He was… staying here. With me. It’s my house, too.” The last part was directed at Mark, a fragile assertion of right that sounded hollow even to her.
Mark ran a hand over his face, the anger draining away to reveal sheer exhaustion. “You used our home as a shelter without my consent. You exposed Tommy, you exposed Kayla…” He looked at Kayla then, and the apology in his eyes was immediate and deep. Kayla could only nod numbly, her arms still locked around a confused and quiet Tommy.
Dylan finally spoke, his voice a rough, unused sound. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t look at Mark or Kayla, but at the ground near his mother’s feet. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to scare anybody. I just didn’t have anywhere… Mom said it was okay.”
“For a little while.” He flinched as soon as the words were out, knowing how feeble they sounded.
“A little while turned into weeks, Sabrina,” Mark stated, the fact hanging in the cold air. “And you never once thought to come to me? To tell me the truth?”
“I was terrified!” she burst out, tears finally spilling over. “Terrified you’d say no. Terrified you’d make him leave. Terrified of… of this.” She gestured at the scene—the police, the neighbors likely watching from windows, the devastating confrontation on the front lawn. “He’s sick, Mark. He needs help, not jail. He came to me for help.”
The two officers exchanged a look. The older one spoke again. “Given the circumstances, if this is a family matter and no one wishes to press charges for trespassing…” He left the question hanging, looking from Mark to Sabrina.