When I pulled the second sock off, Eli started apologizing before I even said anything.
That’s what made my stomach turn.
Not the bandages.
Not the smell from the infected skin.
A seven-year-old apologizing because he thought being hurt was causing problems again.
Sandra kept insisting it was “just a scrape” from his bike until the ER doctor asked Eli why there were older scars healing underneath the fresh ones. My grandson looked terrified the second adults started talking too loudly.
He kept watching the door like he expected somebody worse to walk in.
CPS came before midnight.
Turns out Sandra’s boyfriend had been making Eli stand barefoot on the gravel behind the trailer whenever he “talked back.” The black shoes weren’t about fashion. They were to hide bruising and blood during school pickup.
I still remember the social worker kneeling beside Eli asking where he felt safest.
He didn’t say “with Mom.”
Didn’t even hesitate.
He pointed at me and whispered,
“At Grandpa’s trailer because nobody gets mad if I spill stuff there.”
The worst part came later when police searched Sandra’s place.
They found three unopened Walmart shoe boxes in her closet.
Correct size.
Still had the tags on them.
She just never gave them to him.