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“Yes, sissy.”

By the time the Goonies are done finding the treasure, his eyelids have gone soft. He tucks his head against my shoulder like it’s the safest harbor and stops making noises about pirate traps.

I rest my hand on his hair, fingers through the soft curls there and I finally breathe again.

For a little while, that’s enough.

Tomorrow dad is back, and when he’s back, I have to hide, I have to die.

48

Mireya

Play - Family Line by Conan Grey

Take me away

Coming home is always the same. A contradictory mix of stress and dopamine that tightens my chest even before the door closes behind me.

Seeing Milo makes me happy, truly happy. But this joy always comes with another certainty that gives me a headache: seeing him again also means seeing my father again.

I go on autopilot right after Milo goes to bed. Saturday morning, I woke up with a start.

The same nightmare, the same sensation, one hand, then a second, then this…this pain, as if my body remembers everything every time I close my eyes and my mind tries to rest.

My heart is racing, my throat is dry, and despite the silence of the house, I know I won't fall back asleep. I lie there, eyes open, counting the seconds, listening to every sound.

I usually believe that if I don't wake up with dried tears on my cheeks, it might mean everything is alright. That the pain I feel between my thighs, the burning sensation every time the cool air touches my skin, as if I'd been fighting it even in my sleep, that it was all just a nightmare.

I get up, take a shower, make sure Milo is wide awake and happy with his day, then I go downstairs to make breakfast. It's always like this.

Then I hear his footsteps. We're sitting at the table when he comes in. Milo has already finished his first slice of toast. He licks his fingers, smiles, he looks so happy.

And I feel guilty for feeling stressed. I watch him eat and think that if I stare hard enough at this image, maybe it will stay, maybe that will be enough.

But a few moments later, I see him. Step by step, slowly, angry, maybe already a little drunk, who knows. He doesn't say anything, he puts his jacket on the back of a chair and pats Milo on the shoulder.

“Did you make coffee?” he asks, looking at me.

“Yeah, I'll bring it over,” I say, getting up and pouring the coffee into his mug.

He drinks it, but spits it out as if I'd just served him poison. “It's cold.”

Yes, it's cold. He was two hours late this morning.

“I—”

“Never mind.” He drinks it anyway and grimaces, exaggeratedly. "Damn... you're really fucking useless."

Useless.

I've heard it all my life, in different forms. He repeated it to my mother while she was alive, to me when I was little, to me as a teenager, and to me as an adult.

Milo speaks without looking up. “I'm still hungry, ReyRey.”

My heart clenches violently. Not now. Not him. “Later,” I say. “Go to your room, now.”

I don't look at him, because if I do, I'll break down.