“I’m not hungry,” she announces. “I’m going to bed.”
“Of course, honey. Your room is…”
“I can find it on my own,” she snaps, turning on her heels and storming upstairs. I sit there, waiting for the too-familiar sound of a door slamming. I let go of the breath I was holding.
“She hates me.” I let my fork clatter onto my plate.
“She’s angry, but not with you. She’s angry with the entire world right now.”
“Maybe, but I seem to have the starring role in this shitshow.”
My mother smiles gently, resting her hand on top of mine. “Just give her some time and space – especially space. She isn’t used to you.”
“I should’ve brought her here more often.”
“That’s true,” my father adds. “Last time she was here, your mother hadn’t even gone grey yet.”
Mum glares at him, and he shovels a generous forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“She was only five.” I lean my elbow on the table, rubbing at my forehead. “Or maybe six. It was Christmas: the first one we’d spent together. And the last,” I say, guilt washing over me immediately.
“Don’t do it.” My mother squeezes my wrist. “Don’t place all the blame on yourself. Don’t drag up the past. Now you have time to make things right.”
“She’s fifteen, Mum. She hates me.”
“All teenagers hate their parents.”
“I don’t remember ever hating you.”
“Not now,” she adds.
“I just really hope we can sort things out with the school.”
“What about work?” Dad reappears in the conversation. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll work something out.”
“But you only know how to play.”
“I’ll find something. There are gyms, courses. People in this godforsaken town must play sport, right?”
“You could always help out around here,” Dad says. “We recently hired quite a few people, but I’m sure I could find you something.”
“I don’t want you to find me anything, Dad. I can find myself a job.”
“Don’t you remember what it’s like to work out in the countryside anymore?”
“Not really, but that’s not why I’m doing this. I’m doing it for me and Skylar. I want to show her that we can do it: that we can have a life together, that she can trust me.”
“I don’t think she thinks any differently.”
“I don’t know what she thinks, because she only opens her mouth to yell at me or insult me. Or to ask for money.”
“She’ll like it here. You’ll see. She’ll make friends quickly.”
“Only if they let her into that fucking school. Otherwise I’ll have to home-school her – and I don’t think that would help anything.”
“You can be quite persuasive when you want to be,” my father comments. “You’ll find a way.”
