The words land like blows, each one precise.
My father—Richard Castellano, successful businessman, master of the absent birthday card and the guilt-funded education.
He paid for my college degree.
The English degree I was so proud of.
The one that was supposed to be my ticket to teaching kids how to love words.
Three years ago, I had plans. I was going to be a teacher. I was going to matter.
Now I'm standing in a kitchen that smells like burned chicken, trying not to cry while the man I live with tells me all the reasons I'm worthless.
"I saw a job posting today," I hear myself say. "For a teaching assistant position. I thought maybe?—"
Cain laughs. Sharp. Mocking.
"You want to teach kids? You can't even keep the house clean. You'd be a joke, Ripley. Those kids would eat you alive."
"I just thought?—"
"That's your problem. You think too much." He crosses to me, and I hold very still. "You've got it good here. I take care of you. I pay the bills. Everything you have is because of me. Don't ever forget who takes care of you."
"I won't," I whisper. "I don't."
"Good." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the tenderness makes my skin crawl. This is the part I hate most—the way he shifts from cruelty to affection in a breath. "Now finish dinner. I'm starving."
I plate the food with shaking hands.
When I set it in front of him, he doesn't thank me.
He just picks up his fork and starts eating, scrolling through his phone like I'm not even there.
This is my life.
Three years of walking on eggshells, of making myself small, of learning to disappear in plain sight.
I was nineteen when I met him—young and stupid and so desperate to be loved that I mistook possession for passion.
He was charming then.
He made me feel like the center of the universe.
I didn't realize until too late that the universe he was building was a cage.
After dinner, Cain moves to the couch. I clean the kitchen in silence, scrubbing the dishes until they gleam.
My mind wanders—to my mother, who doesn't know; to my father, who wouldn't care; to the teaching job I'll never apply for.
When the kitchen is spotless, I bring him another beer.
He takes it without looking away from the TV.
"You just gonna stand there?" he asks.
"Sorry. I was just?—"
"Thinking again." He glances up, and there's that look in his eyes. "Come here."
