“I said don’t call them that.” I straightened up, my hands trembling slightly at my sides. “They’re my friends, and I won’t listen to you talk about them like that.”
He laughed, an ugly sound that had nothing to do with humor. “Your friends? Since when do you have friends? God, you’re just like your mother. You’re always looking for attention, always trying to be special. Look where that got her.”
I felt my blood run cold. He rarely mentioned my mother, especially not like this. The contempt in his voice made me take a step back.
“Don’t you dare blame her,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “She died giving birth to me. That wasn’t her choice.”
“She chose to keep you when I told her not to!” he roared, his face twisting with rage. “I told her she was too weak, too small. The doctors warned her, but no, she had to prove she could do it. She had to bespecial. Had to have her precious baby.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. All the air left my lungs as I stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sayingyoukilled her.” He took an unsteady step toward me. “And for what? So you could grow up to be this... thisdisappointment?”
My back hit the wall. I hadn’t even realized I was moving. The kitchen seemed to be spinning around me.
“I didn’t kill her,” I whispered. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Everything was fine before you,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “We were happy. And then you came along, and she was gone, and I was stuck withyou.” He spat the last word like it tasted bad in his mouth.
Something inside me broke. All those years of trying to please him, of swallowing his insults and his fists, of hiding who I was… all of it crashed down around me.
“Fuck you,” I said, the words ripping from my throat.
Dad blinked, momentarily shocked into silence. Then his face darkened.
“What did you just say to me, boy?”
“I saidfuckyou.” I was shaking, but I didn’t back down. “I didn’t kill Mom. I didn’t ask to be born. And I’m done. I’m fucking done letting you make me feel guilty for something I had no control over.”
He lunged at me then, whiskey-clumsy but still strong as the table crashed to the floor. His hand closed around my throat, shoving me against the wall.
“You ungrateful little shit,” he snarled, his breath hot with alcohol. “After everything I’ve done for you?—”
“You’ve done nothing but make my life hell,” I choked out, clawing at his hand. “You hit me, you belittle me, you blame me for Mom’s death. What kind of father does that?”
His grip tightened, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen before. It was a hatred so pure it scared me more than his fists ever had. Would he do it? Would he actually kill me this time?
“You want to know what kind of father I am?” he growled. “I’m the kind who should have left you at the hospital the day you were born instead of letting those assholes talk me into taking you home.”
And that was all it took. All the fear, all the pain, all the years of walking on eggshells… it all crystalized into a single moment of clarity. I wasn’t going to be his punching bag anymore. I wasn’t going to sit here and take abuse from a man that didn’t even want me around, who hadneverwanted me. There was no allegiance anymore, no loyalty, and sure as fuck no love between us.
I reacted on instinct. My fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack that sent shockwaves up my arm. He stumbled backward, his grip on my throat releasing as his eyes widened inshock. For a moment, we both froze. He swayed on his feet, and I stood there with my fist still clenched at my side.
“You hit me,” he said, his voice oddly small. Like he couldn’t believe it.
“You’re damn right I did.” My voice was steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “And I’ll do it again if you ever put your hands on me like that.”
Dad touched his jaw, wincing as his fingers probed the spot where I’d struck him. Then his legs seemed to give out, and he dropped heavily to the floor, sitting among the shattered remains of the whiskey bottle.
“Get up,” I said, standing over him. “Get up and hit me back if that’s what you want.”
But he just stared up at me, something like confusion replacing the rage in his bloodshot eyes. For the first time in my life, I saw fear there too. Fear of me.
“You’re just like him,” Dad mumbled, more to himself than to me. “Just like your grandfather.”
I’d never met my grandfather. He’d died before I was born, but I’d heard stories. None of them good.
“Maybe I am,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “But at least I’m not you.”
