The boy was already on his next mission, stomping a wet trench into the sand with his heels, each splash loud and deliberate, the rhythm carrying straight to Claire’s ears. She opened her book again, but the words refused to stay in place. Every giggle, every splash, every thud felt like a deliberate jab.
She sat frozen in her chair, the weight of the situation settling like a stone in her stomach. There was nothing she could say that would make a dent. The mother had made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in hearing from her, and the boy seemed to have more energy than the tide itself.